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THE  TALES 

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JOHN  OLIVER   HOBBES 


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THE  TALES 


OF 


JOHN  OLIVER  HOBBES 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral,**  "A  Study  in 
Temptations."  **  The  Sinner's  Comedy, 
"  A  Bundle  of  Life/* 


New  York:     FREDERICK  A. 
STOKES  COMPANY,  Publishers 


Copyright,  1897,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY. 

SOME  EMOTIONS  AND  A  MORAL. 

Copyright,  1891,  by 

THE  CASSHLL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 

All  Rights  Reserved. 

A  STUDY  IN  TEMPTATIONS. 

Copyright,  1893,  by 

THE  CASSELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 

All  Rights  Reserved. 

THE  SINNER'S  COMEDY. 

Copyright,  1892,  by 

THB  CASSELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 

All  Rights  Reserved. 

A  BUNDLE  OF  LIFE. 

Copyright,  1893,  by 
J.  SELWIN  TAIT  &  SONS. 

Copyright,  1894,  by 
THK  CASSELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 

All  Rights  Reserved, 


CONTENTS 


2041732 


SOME  EMOTIONS  AND  A  MORAL        .        »  .       I 

THE  SINNER'S  COMEDY         ....  121 

A  STUDY  IN  TEMPTATIONS       .        .        .  .  2OI 

A  BUNDLE  OF  LIFE 365 


SOME  EMOTIONS  AND  A  MORAL 


Some   Emotions   and  a    Moral. 
Part  I. 


"IDEALS,  my  dear  Golightly,  are  the  root  of  every 
evil.  When  a  man  forgets  his  ideals  he  may  hope  for 
happiness,  but  not  till  then." 

"  And  if  he  has  none  to  forget  ?  " 

"  That  he  has  none  to  forget,"  said  the  first  speaker 
slowly,  "  simply  means  that  he  has  not  yet  been  dis- 
appointed." 

"  You  think  he  cannot  escape  them  ?  " 

"  I  know  he  cannot.  Of  course  I  am  speaking  of 
the  Thinking  Man — not  a  human  machine." 

The  man  who  had  been  addressed  as  Golightly  bent 
back  in  his  chair,  and  did  not  reply  immediately.  He 
had  a  pleasant,  rest-giving  face — rest-giving  in  its 
strong  suggestion  that  he  was  not  the  man  to  under- 
estimate his  fellow-creatures,  or  himself. 

"  You  say  that  a  Thinking  Man  cannot  escape 
ideals,"  he  said  at  last,  "  and  yet  you  add  he  cannot 
be  happy  till  he  forgets  them.  Is  not  that  a  little 
hard  on  the  Thinking  Man  ? " 

"  Is  not  everything  hard  on  him  ? "  said  the  other. 
"Who  can  use  his  eyes  and  not  wonder  whether  it 

2 


2  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

may  not  be  better  to  live  a  satisfied  hog-  than  a  dissat- 
isfied philosopher  ?  Some  days  I  have-  almost  suc- 
ceeded in  not  feeling — almost  persuaded  myself  that 
after  all  there  is  nothing  either  good  or  honest — almost 
doubted  my  own  sincerity  in  hoping  I  was  mistaken. 
I  suppose  that  because  it  has  only  been  a  case  of 
'  almost '  I  have  not  felt  happier." 

"  Everything  depends  on  what  you  call  being  happy," 
said  Golightly.  "The  word  'happiness'  seems  to 
play  the  writing  on  the  wall  to  each  man's  Belshazzar, 
and  each  Belshazzar  thinks  himself  a  Daniel.  From 
your  point  of  view,  Provence,  I  should  say  it  sim- 
ply meant  the  craving  for  a  new  sensation.  As  for 
myself — at  the  risk  of  appearing  frigid — I  think  there 
is  much  to  take  hold  of  in  the  Greek  notion  :  that 
man  is  happiest  to  whom  from  day  to  day  no  evil 
happens." 

Provence  rose  from  his  chair  and  began  to  pace  the 
floor. 

"  If  I  could  tell  you  what  I  meant  by  happiness," 
he  said,  "I  should  not  want  it.  I  have  no  pretty 
talent  for  definitions.  There  are  some  men,  I  know, 
who  can  analyze  their  first  love  and  wonder  with 
Hume  if  their  passion  is  the  appetite  for  generation 
sandwiched  between  the  appreciation  for  beauty  and 
a  generous  kindness.  They  can  reduce  their  God  to 
a  diagram  and  their  emotions  to  a  system.  If  that  is 
philosophy,  I  have  not  the  first  makings  of  a  philo- 
sopher. But  I  know  this  :  I  cannot  be  happy  merely 
because  I  am  not  unhappy.  It  is  this  unending  even- 
ness, this  everlasting  dulness,  which  overwhelms  me. 
If  I  may  have  nothing  better,  give  me  seven  devils : 
one  could  not  be  dull  with  seven  devils !  " 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  3 

"  You  have  been  overworking,"  said  Golightly,  "  and 
this  morbidity  is  the  result.  All  your  life  you  have 
been  zealously  bottling  your  spirits,  and  now  you  com- 
plain because  they  are  stale.  You  have  always  avoided 
sympathy,  and  yet  you  grumble  because  you  are  out  of 
touch  with  the  world." 

"Sympathy,"  said  Provence,  "is  the  one  emotion 
which  seems  most  perfect  as  it  becomes  most  animal : 
in  its  human  aspect  it  too  often  lapses  into  the  mor- 
alizing grandmother.  Animals  don't  ask  questions 
and  cannot  answer  back.  A  dog  can  put  more 
soul  into  a  look  than  a  kind  friend  can  talk  in  an 
hour." 

He  had  ceased  pacing  the  floor,  and  was  now  sitting 
in  a  dark  corner  of  the  room.  In  the  twilight  Go- 
lightly  could  see  the  outline  of  his  figure,  and  the  ner- 
vous movement  of  his  firm,  strong  hands. 

"  Provence,"  he  said,  "  I  have  often  thought — I 
know  it  is  a  delicate  subject — that  if  you  could  meet 
some  nice,  really  nice  girl — women  are  so  clever  at  un- 
derstanding dispositions "  Here  he  found  the 

subject  not  only  delicate,  but  too  difficult.     He  stopped 
short. 

"  Girls  do  not  delight  me,"  said  Provence ;  "  they 
appear  to  have  no  intermediate  stage  between  the 
guileless  chicken  and  the  coquettish  hen.  My  ideal 
woman  is  a  combination  of  the  Madonna  and  the 
Wood-nymph — with  the  Wood-nymph  element  pre- 
dominating. As  for  marriage,  I  fear  it  is  a  sadly 
overrated  blessing.  Wives  are  either  too  much  devil 
or  too  much  angel.  Fancy  eating  bacon  every  morn- 
ing of  one's  life  with  a  blameless  creature  who  was 
dangling  one-quarter  of  the  way  from  heaven  and 


4  Some  Emotions  and  a  MoraL 

three-quarters  from  earth !  I  should  die  of  respect  for 
her." 

"  And  what  if  she  were  too  much  devil  ? " 

"  I  should  love  her  horribly,"  said  Provence.  "  That 
is  the  worst  of  devils— they  are  so  entirely  adorable. 
I  don't  say  I  should  be  particularly  anxious  to  make 
one  the  mother  of  my  children  ;  and  that  I  know  is 
the  amiable  and  perfectly  correct  ambition  of  the  aver- 
age young  man  averagely  enamoured.  But  even  were 
I  sojninded— which  the  gods  forbid— I  doubt  extremely 
whether  a  devil  would  appreciate  the  kind  intention. 
There  is  nothing  remarkably  exhilarating  in  the  pros- 
pect of  a  large  family." 

Golightly,  whose  sentiments  were  more  proper  than 
intense,  laughed  with  a  twinging  conscience.  He  had 
never  seen  Provence  in  this  mood  before,  and  felt  a 
little  irritable  that  there  were  still  some  unexplored 
possibilities  in  his  friend's  character.  He  was  not 
certain,  either,  that  the  possibilities  hinted  at  were  ab- 
solutely satisfactory. 

"  I  don't  quite  see  what  you're  driving  at,"  he  said. 
"  None  of  this  sounds  in  the  least  like  you." 

"  I  dare  say  not.  You  may  know  a  man  for  twenty 
years,  and  in  the  twenty-first  year  he  will  do  something 
which  will  make  your  twenty  years'  experience  count 
for  nought.  Then  you  say,  '  I  should  never  have  ex- 
pected this  from  A.'  Just  as  if  A  would  have  expected 
it  himself.  Men  astonish  themselves  far  more^than 
they  astonish  their  friends." 

"That  may  be  true  of  some  natures,"  said  Go- 
lightly  ;  "  but  I  confess  I  prefer  a  character  one  can 
swear  by." 

"  A  person  of  that  kind  is  useful,  but  just  a  shade 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  5 

monotonous,"  said  Provence.  "  Lord  !  Lord  !  what  a 
charm  is  there  in  variety  !  " 

"Ideas  of  that  sort  are  very  apt  to  land  one  in 
difficulties.  You  might  as  well  cling  to  a  slippery 
rock  for  the  fun  of  falling  off.  If  you  were  to  take 
a  short  holiday  you  would  probably  come  back  with 
saner  notions." 

"I  believe  you  are  getting  to  the  bottom  of  the 
matter,"  said  Provence.  "  I  certainly  do  want  change 
of  some  sort.  I  have  eaten  my  fill  of  chops  and 
tomato  sauce:  I  am  hankering  for  locusts  and  wild 
honey  and  a  wilderness." 

"  In  the  wilderness  one  is  apt  to  be  tempted  of  the 
devil,"  said  Golightly,  half  under  his  breath. 

Provence  laughed.  "  Man  is  at  best  a  learned  pig," 
he  said,  "and  the  pig  nature  has  its  promptings.  It 
will  root  for  truffles  in  Sahara  or  Paradise."  Then 
with  characteristic  abruptness  he  wished  Golightly 
good-night,  and  left  the  house. 

When  Golightly  went  down  into  the  drawing- 
room — for  he  and  Provence  had  been  talking  in  a 
small  room  known  to  the  housemaid  as  the  library — 
he  found  three  ladies  there  and  a  gentleman.  The  elder 
of  the  ladies  was  rather  stout  and  had  a  Wellington 
nose :  she  wore  a  mantle,  and  a  black  bonnet  which 
consisted  of  two  velvet  strings  and  an  impossible  jet 
butterfly  which  wobbled  on  an  invisible  wire ;  her 
gown  was  black  silk.  She  reclined  in  her  chair, 
sipped  her  tea,  and  nibbled  her  muffin,  with  that  air  of 
combined  condescension  and  embarrassment  which  is 
usually  characteristic  of  the  moneyed  relative.  The 
lady  at  the  tea-tray  was  slim,  smooth-cheeked,  and 
perhaps  forty  ;  she  had  a  quantity  of  mouse-coloured 


6  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

hair,  which  she  wore  very  elaborately  puffed  ;  her  face 
was  pleasing  and  her  expression  what  is  called  lady- 
like— that  is  to  say,  it  did  not  betray  any  one  cha- 
racteristic too  strongly,  except  that  of  polite  acquies- 
cence in  generally  accepted  doctrines.  Her  husband 
— who  was  the  gentleman  present — considered  her  a 
devilish  "  distanggay  "-looking  woman.  As  for  him- 
self, he  was  chiefly  remarkable  for  a  pair  of  long  legs, 
which  seemed  rather  insecurely  attached  to  his  body, 
and  a  very  marvellous  laugh — a  laugh  which  started 
with  a  gentle  gurgle  apparently  from  his  toes,  and 
burst  from  his  lips  with  the  roar  of  a  Niagara.  So  far 
as  mere  noise  went  it  was  admirable  ;  but  there  was 
never  anything  less  mirthful.  He  was  Captain  Archi- 
bald Golightly,  late  of  the  — th  Hussars,  and  brother 
to  the  lady  with  the  bonnet. 

The  third  lady — who  looked  about  twenty-seven — 
had  a  nose  which  somehow  suggested  low  comedy, 
and  a  plaintive-looking  mouth.  She  bore  a  certain 
resemblance,  particularly  about  the  eyes,  which  were 
large,  clear,  and  emotionless — singularly  like  glass 
marbles — to  the  lady  in  the  bonnet.  She  was,  in  fact, 
her  daughter. 

"Did  I  hear  Godfrey's  voice  in  the  hall?"  said 
Mrs.  Golightly,  as  her  step-son  entered.  She  was  the 
captain's  second  wife.  a  Why  didn't  you  make  him 
come  in  ? " 

"  He's  in  one  of  his  moods,"  said  George — for  that 
was  the  young  man's  name. 

"  Are  you  speaking  of  Godfrey  Provence  ? "  said 
the  lady  with  the  bonnet.  "  Do  tell  me  about  him. 
Does  there  seem  any  prospect  of  his  getting  on  ? " 

.w  He's  still  writing,"  said  the  Captain. 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

"  He  can't  be  doing  much — one  never  hears  of  him," 
she  said. 

"Provence  is  aiming  at  rather  a  high  standard," 
said  George  j  "  he  is  not  easily  contented  with  his 
work.  It's  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  get  him 
to  publish  a  line." 

The  young  woman  with  the  low-comedy  nose 
looked  at  him  gratefully  from  under  the  rim  of  her 
hat.  He  wondered  why. 

"I  know  the  kind  of  thing,"  said  the  Bonnet. 
"  Literature  is  all  very  well  if  you  make  a  regular 
business  of  it,  but  the  moment  you  regard  it  as  an 
art,  you're  practically  done  for.  We  all  know  you'll 
never  earn  a  penny." 

"  But  Godfrey's  a  clever  chap,"  said  the  Captain ; 
"  he  must  be  clever,  you  know,  Sarah — everybody  says 
so." 

"  What's  the  use  of  being  clever  if  you're  never 
heard  of  ?  "  said  Sarah,  who  was  no  other  than  Lady 
Hemingway,  widow  of  Sir  James  Hemingway, 
Baronet. 

"  Well,  of  course,  his  style  is  what  they  call  severe," 
said  the  Captain ;  "  he's  got  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment, and  writes  rather  above  the  heads  of  ordinary 
folk." 

"There's  a  good  deal  of  human  nature  in  him  all 
the  same,"  put  in  George. 

Lady  Hemingway  looked  suspicious.  She  was  not 
at  all  sure  that  human  nature  was  proper  :  she  was 
certain  it  was  not  well-bred  :  in  connection  with  the 
artistic  temperament  it  was  even  alarming. 

"  Does  he  write  things  one  could  have  on  one's 
drawing-room  table  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  consider  that  is 


8  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

the  true  test  of  a  book — would  one  wish  to  have  it  in 
one's  drawing-room  ?  " 

"  His  article  in  last  month's  Waverley  was  beautiful," 
said  her  daughter,  who  blushed  painfully  after  she  had 
spoken. 

"Grace  reads  all  the  learned  Reviews,"  explained 
Lady  Hemingway  j  "  she  goes  in  for  Higher  Educa- 
tion, you  know.  But,"  she  went  on,  "  does  Godfrey 
make  much  by  his  writing  ?  That  is  the  point.  I 
know  he  has  his  mother's  two  hundred  and  fifty,  but 
no  one  could  call  that  an  income.  He'll  have  to  marry 
money — so  far  as  I  can  see." 

"I'm  afraid  he  wouldn't  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Go- 
lightly  j  "  he  has  very  peculiar  views  about  marriage. 
You  see  Constance  brought  him  up  almost  entirely 
herself.  I  think  he  would  marry  a  girl  without  a 
penny,  if  he  took  a  fancy  to  her." 

"  How  wrong  to  bring  up  a  boy  with  such  notions," 
said  Lady  Hemingway,  "and  after  her  own  bitter 
experience." 

"She  lived  very  happily  with  her  husband,  you 
know,"  said  Mrs.  Golightly.  "  I  really  think  they  were 
attached  to  each  other — quite  to  the  end.  Don't  you 
find  that  artists,  and  musicians,  and  literary  people  seem 
to  feel  more  than  those  with  more — well,  more  every- 
day pursuits  ?  " 

"  Their  feelings  are  always  getting  them  into 
trouble,  I  know  that,"  said  Lady  Hemingway,  "and 
they  are  generally  dreadfully  poor.  Look  at  Con- 
stance ! " 

"  She  never  seemed  to  mind  her  poverty,"  said 
Mrs.  Golightly  j  "  she  bore  it  quite  happily.  Some- 
times— it  sounds  ridiculous — I  almost  envied  her% 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  9 

although  I  can  assure  you — but  pray  don't  let  it  go 
further — it  was  very  seldom  they  could  afford  a  joint 
for  dinner." 

"  She  brought  it  all  on  herself,"  said  Lady  Heming- 
way j  "  with  her  figure  she  might  have  married  very 
well  indeed.  By  the  bye,  does  Godfrey  resemble  his 
mother  ? " 

The  Captain  shook  his  head  mournfully.  "  He's  an 
ugly  chap,"  he  said,  "  but  you  get  used  to  him — I'll 
say  that." 

"Ah  ! "  said  Lady  Hemingway.  "  Grace  never  told 
me  that.  She  has  met  him  several  times  at  {At 
Homes,'  and  at  one  thing  and  another.  All  I  could 
get  out  of  her  was  that  he  had  a  nice  voice  and  looked 
powerful — which  of  course  would  apply  to  a  coal- 
heaver." 

Every  one  looked  at  Grace,  who  again  blushed. 

"  I  should  like  to  be  kind  to  him,"  continued  Lady 
Hemingway,  "because  of  poor  darling  Constance. 
I  will  send  him  a  card  for  my  Thursdays.  Men  are 
always  useful." 

"  Godfrey  doesn't  shine  in  society,"  said  the  Captain, 
"and  it's  mere  waste  to  put  a  good  dinner  before  him." 

"  What  a  strange  thing  !  And  his  father  was  such 
a  gentlemanly  man  !  "  said  Lady  Hemingway. 

"  Godfrey's  rum,"  observed  the  Captain. 

"He's  a  dear  fellow  when  you  know  him,"  said 
Mrs.  Golightly  j  "  of  course  he  can  be  very  trying, 
but  he's  so  kind  if  one  has  a  headache  ! " 

"  Poets  have  always  a  touch  of  the  molly-coddle," 
said  her  sister-in-law.  Then  she  rose,  murmured  she 
must  be  going,  and  kissed  the  air  at  an  angle  of  forty- 
five  degrees  from  Mrs.  Golightly's  cheek.  "Good- 


io  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

bye,  dear,"  she  said  j  "  don't  forget  the  24th,  and 
bring  your  music.  People  are  singing  a  lot  of 
Schubert  just  now — all  in  German,  you  know. 
German  is  so  quaint.  And  you  haven't  given  me 
Godfrey's  address,"  she  added. 

"Twelve,  Achilles  Villas,  Shepherd's  Bush,"  said 
the  Captain. 

"  Shepherd's  Bush  ! "  said  Lady  Hemingway  j  "  you 
must  mean  Bedford  Park.  There  was  some  quite 
well-known  literary  people  there — the  sort  who  some- 
times ask  you  to  dinner." 

"  Godfrey  is  at  Shepherd's  Bush,"  repeated  the 
Captain,  gloomily. 

"  How  dreadful  !  Pray  don't  tell  any  one  outside 
the  family,"  and  with  more  adieux  and  more  murmur- 
ings  about  the  24th,  she  and  her  daughter  went  out. 

Harriet  Golightly  watched  them  drive  away  in  their 
brougham. 

"She  might  offer  to  take  me  for  a  turn  in  the  Park 
occasionally,"  she  said. 

"Sarah's  a  selfish  cat,"  said  the  Captain,  "and 
always  was.  But  she'd  give  all  she's  worth  for  your 
head  of  hair." 

His  wife  did  not  find  this  speech  so  consoling 
as  he  had  hoped. 

"  They  make  wigs  wonderfully  well  now,"  she 
said,  "and  they  keep  up  ever  so  much  better  than 
one's  own  hair." 

"  Is  Sarah  what  you'd  call  well-preserved  ?  "  said  the 
Captain,  after  a  pause.  "  It's  quite  two  years  since 
I've  seen  her,  and  I  fancy  she's  gone  off." 

"She  looks  every  day  of  her  age,"  said  Harriet,  "and 
that  must  be  fifty — for  she's  older  than  Constance," 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  1 1 

"  Poor  Connie  !  "  sighed  Archibald,  "she  was  a  fool 
to  marry  that  old  drybones  Provence." 

"  Your  family  need  not  have  cut  her  for  it,  all  the 
same,"  said  his  wife.  "  I  have  always  thought — and  I 
would  say  it  with  my  dying  breath — that  she  was 
treated  very  badly." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Archibald  j  "  we 
were  all  very  well  brought  up  and  accustomed  to  good 
society — you  must  own  it  was  rather  a  come-down  to 
have  her  marry  a  foreigner,  and  a  professional  into  the 
bargain.  The  man  actually  gave  lessons  ;  and  you 
may  say  what  you  like,  but  at  that  time  that  was 
considered — well — an  inferior  sort  of  thing  to  do." 

"  He  was  a  gentleman  by  birth,"  said  Harriet ; 
"you  can't  deny  that." 

"  I  don't  believe  much  in  French  families,"  said  her 
husband  j  "  no  one  ever  knows  anything  about  'em 
so  far  as  I  can  make  out.  Every  beastly  little  French- 
man one  meets  can't  be  descended  from  the  lost 
Dauphin  or  the  Huguenots.  I  call  it  dam  cheek  on 
their  part  to  expect  an  educated  Englishman  to  believe 
it.  Besides,  what's  a  Huguenot  ?  I  thought  most  of 
'em  were  chopped  up." 

"  Don't,"  said  his  wife. 

"I  dare  say  Provence  was  all  right — I  hope  so,  at 
all  events,  for  the  sake  of  the  family." 

"  He  was  an  interesting-looking  man." 

"Interesting!  Yes,  I  suppose  women  would  call 
a  man  like  that — all  eyes  and  baggy  trousers — inter- 
esting." 

"  Poor  creature  !  Well,  he's  dead  now,  and  so  is 
Constance." 

"  Gawd  knows  what's  to  become  of  Godfrey.  What 


12  Some  Emotions  ana  a  Moral. 

with  genius  from  his  father — (thank  Gawd  I'm  not 
a  genius  !) — and  any  amount  of  moonstruck  senti- 
mentality from  his  mother,  he's  pretty  sure  to  come 
to  grief.  What  do  you  say,  George  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  George,  "  in  a  crisis,  some  of  the 
Golightly  common  sense  might  come  to  the  rescue." 

But  here  the  dinner-gong  sent  the  good  Captain's 
thoughts  into  another  and  more  congenial  channel. 

"  Do  I  smell  grouse  ?  "  said  he  ;  "  because  I  par- 
ticularly wanted  those  birds  to  hang  for  another  ten 
days." 


II. 


"Mv  search  for  new  worlds,"  wrote  Provence  to 
George  Golightly  a  few  days  later,  "  begins  at  this 
small  village — not  a  hundred  miles  from  Charing  Cross 
— which  I  have  named  the  End  of  all  Things.  It  is  de- 
scribed on  local  guide-posts  as  Little  Speenham.  There 
is  a  church,  a  public-house,  and  a  dissenting  chapel — 
one  evil  brings  another — and  the  rustic  maid  abounds, 
a  creature  of  large  feet,  wide  smiles,  and  limited  inno- 
cence. This,  however,  in  parenthesis.  My  quarters 
might  be  worse,  and  are  as  comfortable  as  a  respectable 
woman  with  an  unnecessary  husband,  a  voracious  child 
and  a  barn-yard  can  make  them.  When  she  is  not 
feeding  the  husband  and  stirring  pap  for  the  babe  she 
mixes  pabulum  for  the  pigs  :  in  her  leisure  she  does 
the  washing  and  prepares  food  for  me.  What  an  exist- 
ence !  The  other  day  I  asked  her  if  she  did  not 
think  that  the  five  wise  may  have  lived  to  envy  the 
five  foolish  virgins.  She  looked  at  me — as  only  a 
woman  can  look — and  mournfully  winked  !  No 
heroine  flopping  in  elegant  collapse  and  disillusion 
could  match  the  eloquence  of  that  wink.  Sublime  ! 
"  I  can  step  from  my  room  on  to  a  lawn  where 
yellow  ducklings,  a  lame  hen  and  some  middle-aged 
cats  gambol  in  imperfect  amiability  ;  beyond  the  lawn, 
through  a  gate,  is  a  duck-pond — you  walk  a  little  way 
and  behold  !  another  gate — it  is  generally  open — you 
pass  through  and  find  yourself  in  the  poultry-yard. 


14  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

This  yard  is  by  no  means  uninstructive,  and  lacks  but 
one  thing  to  reach  Nineteenth  Century  civilization — 
the  Divorce  Court.  I  must  not  forget  the  kitchen- 
garden — rich  with  gooseberry  bushes,  mignonette, 
apple  trees  and  potatoes  ;  odorous  with  world-weary 
cabbage  and  patent  fertilizer.  A  modern  Eden,  with 
a  dash  of  the  commonplace,  and  a  clothes  line  extended 
from  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  to  the  Tree  of  Life  ; 
Eve  with  a  bad  complexion  and  no  figure — or  too 
much — to  speak  of,  scrubs  the  kitchen  floor  and  has 
small  leisure  for  the  Tempter  j  Satan  (your  obedient 
servant)  loses  himself  in  a  vast  yawn  and  is  certainly 
in  no  mood  to  tempt  j  whilst  Adam  snores  the  sleep 
of  the  unphilosophic,  the  robust  and  the  over-fed,  on 
the  kitchen  chair  bedstead.  To  write  country  idylls 
one  should  live  in  town.  .  .  . 

"  The  air  now  is  delightful — fresh-washed  by  yester- 
day's rain  and  dried  by  this  morning's  sun.  What  a 
Queen  of  Washerwomen  is  Nature !  That  is  a  prosaic 
simile,  I  know,  but  it  suits  my  surroundings.  It  is 
only  a  journalist  or  a  genius  who  can  write  of  ambrosia 
with  his  mouth  full,  nay,  poor  devil,  perhaps  only  half 
full,  of  porridge.  I  shall  try  and  endure  this  for  a 
week.  Shall  I  ever  learn  to  bear  gracefully  what  is 
good  for  me  ?  ever  feel — on  the  analogy  of  Virtue 
being  its  own  reward  (a  darksome  saying  en  passant] 
— that  the  Uncomfortable,  the  Irksome,  the  Infinitely 
Tedious  and  all  the  phases  of  Dead-levelism  are  better 
for  me  than  all  the  other  things  (thank  Heaven,  we 
may  leave  them  to  the  imagination)  which  I  am  not 
desperate  enough — yet — to  hope  for  ?  But — it  is 
encouraging  to  remember  that  there  are  few  things 
in  life  which  do  not  sooner  or  later  admit  a  But — I 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  15 

have  had  an  adventure.  This  noon  I  started  for  a 
walk  over  the  common  with  its  big  board  of  bye-laws 
lame  in  the  leg  but  awful  with  penalties)  and  on  to  the 
high  road.  Then,  for  no  other  reason  than  my  con- 
stitutional love  for  the  crooked,  I  branched  off  into 
a  winding  lane.  I  must  have  walked  ten  minutes 
or  more  when  I  suddenly  found  myself  facing  a  gate : 
curiosity  or  my  guardian  angel  prompted  me  to  look 
over  it.  I  saw  a  small,  old-fashioned  garden,  a  broad, 
flat  house  of  the  bungalow  type,  and  a  girl  sitting  on  the 
lawn.  At  first  I  noticed  that  she  was  bored  and  what 
women  call  untidy  ;  then  that  she  was  mysteriously, 
surprisingly,  uncomfortably  beautiful.  I  suppose  I 
stared  too  hard — she  looked  up,  caught  my  eye, 
blushed,  tugged  her  dress,  which  was  certainly  short, 
over  her  ankles  and  tried  to  smooth  her  hair  ;  for  she 
wore  no  hat.  Well,  it  was  clearly  impossible  for  me 
to  stand  any  longer  at  the  gate  j  it  was  equally  im- 
possible for  me  to  walk  away — at  least  from  my  point  of 
view.  I  took  off  my  hat,  endeavoured  to  look  innocent, 
and  touched  the  gate.  Uinconnue  rose  from  her  chair, 
and  with  one  more  tug  at  her  gown  walked  towards 
me.  c  I  beg  your  pardon,'  said  I,  c  but  can  you  direct 
me  to  East  Sheerwell  ?  I  think  I  have  lost  my  way.' 
She  began  to  smile,  and  looked  steadily  beyond  me. 
c  You  are  quite  in  the  wrong  direction,'  she  said  j 
c  East  Sheerwell  is  ten  miles  from  here  and  lies  at  your 
back.'  I  thanked  her,  took  off  my  hat  again,  and  went 
on  my  way  rejoicing.  Is  that  all  ?  you  will  say.  Have 
I  not  used  the  word  4  rejoicing,'  and  applied  it  to 
myself?  Don't  laugh  at  me — I  am  laughing  at  myself 
enough  for  both  of  us. — Yours,  G.  P. 

"  P.S. — I  have  forgotten  something.    Whom  should 


1 6  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

I  meet  at  the  station  the  day  I  came  down  but  old 
Heathcote — the  Honourable  and  Reverend.  Do  you 
remember  him  ?  It  appea'rs  he  has  exchanged  rectories 
with  the  local  apostle,  and  is  down  here  with  Lady 
Theodosia  Gore-Jones  and  his  two  daughters.  He 
insisted  that  I  should  dine  with  them  to-morrow  and 
stay  over  Sunday.  I  have  never  met  any  of  the 
women,  but  they  are  £  fond  of  music,'  and  *  read  a  little 
Greek — in  a  girlish  way.'  God  be  merciful  to  me 
a  sinner !  He  also  introduced  me  to  a  lady  he  was 
very  much  assisting  into  a  chariot  and  pair — an  elderly 
person  who  shows  me  what  the  British  Matron  might 
have  been  before  she  was  shocked.  Her  name  is 
Cargill,  and  her  husband  is  a  baronet.  Into  what 
distinguished  company  have  I  fallen !  You  may 
depend  the  devil  is  not  far  off  in  this  wilderness." 

When  Provence  had  finished  this  letter  he  gave 
it  to  his  landlady  for  the  post-boy,  and  left  the  house 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  some  more  definite 
object  in  view  than  a  mild  jostling  for  the  digestion.  It 
was  evening — perhaps  nine  o'clock,  and  that  peculiar 
stillness  reigned  over  all  things  which  in  the  country 
marks  the  closing  in  of  day.  The  moon  was  bright, 
the  air  fresh.  Provence  felt  that  he  had  every  excuse 
for  tingling  with  the  joy  of  being  alive,  and  that  his 
scepticism  for  one  night  at  least  might  be  the  light 
scum  on  a  deep  surface  of  sentimentality  and  unspoken 
quotations  from  the  poets.  For  one  moment  he  was 
tempted  to  think  he  might  lapse  into  poetry  himself: 
that  is  to  say,  if  his  thoughts  would  only  shape  them- 
selves into  something  more  definite  than  a  variety  of 
agreeable  impressions  which  would  no  more  bear 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  17 

analysis — much  less  the  writing  on  paper — than  the 
sheen  of  the  moon  on  the  duck-pond.  Meanwhile  he 
walked  on,  gradually  quickening  his  steps  until  he 
reached  the  winding  lane  he  had  already  explored  that 
morning.  Then  he  slackened  his  pace,  and  with  the 
not  unpleasant  consciousness  that  he  was  behaving 
more  youngly  than  he  had  ever  imagined  possible  in 
his  youth,  he  smiled  kindly  at  his  own  folly  till  he 
gained  a  green  gate.  Here  he  stopped  short,  for  She 
was  standing  there,  a  vision  of  loveliness  and  white 
muslin — a  fair  enough  sight  to  make  any  man's  heart 
(provided  that  the  cook  and  the  counting-house  had 
not  reduced  that  organ  to  an  inferior  kind  of  liver), 
stand  still.  She  did  not  seem  surprised  to  see  him, 
but  with  an  indescribable  movement  of  grace  and 
confidence  leant  a  little  further  over  the  gate,  looked 
him  straight  in  the  eyes  for  a  bewildering  moment, 
and — looked  away.  The  girl  was,  no  doubt,  as  Pro- 
vence had  said  in  his  letter,  uncomfortably  beautifuJ 
attractive  with  a  beauty  which  other  women  might  or 
might  not  admire,  but  would  at  all  events  rather  not 
see  in  a  rival.  There  were  faults  in  her  face.  The 
chin,  in  spite  of  its  dimple,  might  have  been  rounder, 
her  mouth  with  all  its  fresh  redness  was  a  little  too 
wavering,  her  eyebrows  were  a  shade  too  straight. 
She  had  wonderful  hair,  neither  auburn,  nor  gold, 
nor  brown,  but  a  suggestion  of  all  three ;  brown 
eyes,  with  the  unclouded  frankness  of  a  shallow  pond 
— putting  aside  the  unpleasant  reflection  that  a  shallow 
pond  may  be  deceptive  j  a  skin  of  unusual  fairness, 
and  a  poise  of  the  head  which  was  positively  royal — 
royal  in  that  sense  which,  in  spite  of  human  experience, 
human  sentiment  with  that  longing  to  idealize  the 


1 8  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

real  (a  longing  which,  by  the  bye,  is  more  apt  to 
show  itself  in  definitions  than  deeds) — would  fain  give 
the  word.  In  form  she  was  tall  and  slender — rather 
too  slender,  perhaps,  for  statuesque  symmetry. 

But  before  Provence  could  persuade  himself  that 
there  was  a  something  in  her  expression  which  did  not 
at  all  events  forbid  him  to  draw  nearer,  a  window  was 
heard  to  open,  and  a  loud  voice,  feminine,  aristocratic, 
and  shrill,  drowned  the  sweetness  of  the  nightingale, 
"  Cynthia  !  Cynthia  !  " 

The  girl  sighed,  smiled  with  ineffable  graciousness 
on  heaven  and  earth,  glanced  at  the  mortal  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  road,  and  disappeared  in  the 
shadow  of  the  garden.  Provence  felt  that  the  night 
had  grown  dark. 

But  the  moon  was  still  shining  upon  the  duckpond. 


III. 


"  YOUR  father  is  most  extraordinary,"  said  Lady  Theo- 
dosia  to  her  niece,  as  they  sat  together  on  the  lawn 
next  morning.  "  He  has  invited  a  man  to  dinner 
this  evening — a  person  who  writes — and  I  am  told 
nothing  about  it  till  this  eleventh  hour.  Meanwhile 
I  have  given  all  my  orders  for  the  day,  and  Johnny 
has  driven  in  to  market.  Your  father  cannot  realize 
that  I  have  other  interests  in  life  besides  housekeeping. 
If  I  died  to-morrow  he  would  expect  me  to  soar  into 
heaven  with  the  store-cupboard  on  my  back." 

Lady  Theodosia  Gore-Jones,  third  daughter  of  the 
Earl  of  Drumdrosset  and  widow  of  the  late  Admiral 
Sir  Clyfford  Gore-Jones,  K.C.B.,  was  rather  above 
the  average  height,  with  a  plump  figure  which  her 
male  acquaintance  were  wont  to  describe  as  "deuced 
neat."  She  had  very  black  hair,  which  she  wore 
parted  in  the  middle  and  gathered  in  a  knot  at  the 
nape  of  her  neck.  This  simple  fashion  suited  her 
admirably,  and  had  proved  useful  on  more  than  one 
occasion,  for  it  is  certainly  difficult  to  believe  hard 
things  of  a  woman  who  looks  like  a  Sainte  Nitouche 
— in  profile.  Her  nose  was  small  and  delicate — an 
eminently  lady-like  nose,  with  curved  nostrils  j  her 
lips  were  thin,  red,  and  firmly  set — in  her  own  idea 
chaste,  in  her  late  husband's,  vixenish.  Her  skin — 
for  a  woman  who  owned  to  two  and  forty — was 
remarkably  clear  and  fine. 

19 


2O  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

"  Who  is  the  man  ?  "  said  Cynthia. 

"  His  name  is  Provence.  I  have  heard  of  the 
creature — he  is  an  Egyptologist,  or  a  Dissenter,  or 
something  equally  disagreeable.  Heaven  knows  what 
the  wretch  talks  about !  I  wonder  if  your  father  has 
a  short,  condensed  sort  of  thing  about  Egypt  in  his 
library — one  of  those  convenient  books  you  can  get 
up  in  half  an  hour.  I  cannot  imagine  what  Percival 
sees  in  these  learned,  uncomfortable  people — one  never 
knows  what  to  give  them  for  dinner,  they  have  such 
miserable  digestions.  .  .  .  Of  course — I  knew  there 
was  something  else.  He  wants  me  to  ask  the  Cargills 
over  to  help  the  matter  through.  It  is  outrageous 
at  such  short  notice.  Your  father  has  no  notion  of 
etiquette." 

"  And  what  is  etiquette,  after  all  ?  "  said  her  niece. 

"  Etiquette,  my  dear,  makes  the  difference  between 
Man  and  the  Brute  Beast,"  and  with  that  Lady 
Theodosia  hurried — for  she  was  energetic — into  the 
house. 

Cynthia  waited  till  she  had  gone,  and  then  moved 
her  chair  in  a  more  direct  line  with  her  father's  study, 
which  led  by  French  windows  on  to  the  lawn.  She 
could  then  see  him  at  his  table.  It  was  the  Rector's 
day  for  writing  his  sermon.  He  was  a  man  who 
liked  system  in  all  things :  first  because  it  was  philo- 
sophical j  secondly — and  perhaps,  in  common  with 
many  theorists,  his  secondly  was  the  salt  of  the  whole 
— he  had  an  idea  that  it  was  a  nice,  gentlemanly  sort 
of  thing  to  cultivate.  But  although  the  Hon.  and 
Rev.  Percival  Heathcote  could  control  his  actions,  his 
thoughts  were  amenable  only  to  the  impulse  of  the 
moment.  Now  impulsiveness  formed  the  strongest 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  21 

element  in  his  character  j  the  fact,  therefore,  that 
every  Thursday  morning  at  ten  o'clock  found  him 
at  his  study  table,  and  the  further  fact  that  his  entire 
household  was  wrapped  in  stillness  from  that  hour  till 
luncheon  time,  lest  a  sound  should  stem  the  current  of 
his  eloquence,  merely  resulted  in  this : — if  there  was  a 
day  in  the  week  when  the  sermon  was  not  written, 
Thursday  was  that  day.  Only  one  person  in  the 
world  knew  this,  however,  and  that  was  his  daughter 
Cynthia.  She,  too,  like  her  father,  was  impulsive,  but 
she — seeing  that  she  was  a  woman — saw  no  need  to 
cultivate  much  besides  her  own  will.  "  System,"  she 
once  told  her  father,  "  is  an  excellent  thing  if  one  has 
no  spirit,  but  spirit  will  accomplish  in  five  minutes 
what  system  cannot  do  in  as  many  centuries."  Her 
father  looked  grave  and  shook  his  head,  but  loved  her 
the  more.  He  explained  this  apparent  inconsistency 
to  himself  as  the  natural  tenderness  of  a  shepherd  for 
the  wandering  lamb. 

On  this  particular  morning  the  Rector  had  taken 
his  chair  as  usual,  arranged  his  blotting-pad  at  pre- 
cisely the  right  angle,  drawn  six  sheets  of  writing 
paper  from  his  desk,  dipped  his  pen  into  the  ink,  and — 
looked  through  the  open  window  and  beyond  the  green 
lawn,  and  beyond  that  again  to  a  garden  seat  where 
Cynthia — Cynthia  in  a  cotton  gown  and  a  surprising 
hat,  which  the  Rector,  in  his  innocence,  supposed  was 
the  fashion — sat  with  her  aunt.  He  sighed,  dipped 
his  pen  in  the  ink  once  more,  and  wrote  his  text  very 
neatly  at  the  top  of  his  first  sheet — "  It  is  the  spirit 
that  quickeneth ;  the  flesh  profiteth  nothing."  Then  he 
looked  up  again,  and  beheld  Lady  Theodosia  moving 
towards  the  kitchen  garden.  He  hesitated  a  few 


22  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

moments — or  was  he  merely  waiting  till  she  was  out 
of  sight  ? — and  finally  walked  to  the  window  and 
whistled — softly,  but  with  the  ease  and  tunefulness 
of  an  accomplished  whistler — the  opening  bars  of  a 
Chopin  Nocturne.  Cynthia  lifted  her  head  and 
laughed.  It  was  a  curious  laugh,  and  meant  all 
manner  of  things  :  among  others,  good  health,  con- 
siderable wickedness,  and  a  fellow-feeling  for  the 
ungodly.  She  left  her  book — for  she  had  been 
reading — and  came  towards  him. 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  she  said,  coming  in  at  the  window 
and  seating  herself  in  a  low  armchair,  "  that  it  is  your 
sermon  day,  or  we  might  have  had  some  music." 

There  was  just  a  shade  of  amiable  malice  in  her 
tone.  The  Rector  looked  wistful.  He  had  a  nice 
touch  for  Chopin. 

"  I  suppose  Agatha  is  at  home  ?  "  he  said. 

Agatha  was  his  eldest  daughter  and  the  mainstay 
of  his  parish.  He  was,  perhaps,  somewhat  afraid  of 
Agatha,  but  she  copied  his  sermons  in  a  beautiful 
hand,  was  an  adept  at  hunting  references,  and  simply 
unequalled  at  tying  a  cravat. 

"  Yes,  Agatha  is  at  home,"  said  Cynthia. 

"  I  wonder  if  she  is  going  out,"  sighed  the  Rector, 
allowing  his  fingers  to  wander  Chopin- wise  on  the 
writing-table. 

"She  is  designing  morning-gowns  for  the  poor 
heathen,"  said  Cynthia.  "  She  certainly  won't  stir 
out  of  the  house  to-day.  But  we  can  talk." 

The  Rector  dropped  his  pen,  stretched  out  his 
long,  elegant  legs,  and  leant  back  in  his  chair.  He 
experienced  a  strange  delight  in  hearing  gossip,  or 
talking  it,  on  Thursdays. 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  23 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me,"  began  Cynthia,  "about 
the  man  who  is  coming  to  dinner.  What  does  Aunt 
Theodosia  mean  by  calling  him  an  Egyptologist  ?  " 

"  Provence  the  Egyptologist  has  been  dead  for  years 
— this  man  is  his  son.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  don't 
know  much  about  him,  except  that  he  is  by  way  of 
being  literary.  I  think  he  once  wrote  a  poem — a 
pretty  enough  thing  about  despair  and  the  soul  and 
the  function  of  art.  Just  what  one  would  expect 
from  the  son  of  a  French  savant  and  an  English 
woman  with  yearnings.  His  father — Professor  Pro- 
vence— was  a  very  singular  character,  and  had  all 
manner  of  theories  about  women  and  the  state  of 
Ireland  and  papyri.  The  mother  was  one  of  the 
Golightlys — very  decent  family  too :  she  was  some- 
thing of  the  British  maid  and  a  good  deal  of  the 
enfant  terrible  when  she  married.  I  remember  the 
marriage  created  a  small  sensation  at  the  time  j  they 
were  foolish  enough  to  elope,  and  she  was  cut  by  her 
family.  You  see,  Provence  had  no  private  income  ; 
he  depended  entirely  on  what  he  earned,  and  the 
Golightlys  could  hardly  be  expected  to  smile  at  an 
alliance  of  that  kind — especially  as  he  earned  very 
little." 

"  But  where  did  you  meet  the  man  who  is  coming 
to  dinner,"  said  Cynthia. 

"  Dobbs  introduced  him  to  me,"  said  the  Rector — 
"Dobbs  of  The  Present  Age.  He  thinks  a  lot  of 
him — calls  him  the  '  makings  of  a  success,'  and  pays 
him  for  his  contributions  with  something  approaching 
liberality.  Of  course  I  could  hardly  do  less  than  ask 
him  to  dinner  when  I  met  him  at  the  station  the 
uther  n^ght.  He  is  down  for  his  health — been  over- 


24  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

working,  I  suppose.  God  knows  what  he  works  at  ; 
even  Dobbs  admits  that  he  has  very  little  to  show  for 
his  promise.  In  case  he's  a  trifle  dull,  I  have  asked 
the  Cargills  to  come  as  well." 

"  Edward  is  so  dull  himself,"  said  Cynthia. 

"  I  don't  know  so  much  about  that,"  said  the 
Rector.  <c  Edward  is  a  man  of  sound  common  sense 
and  good- wearing,  everyday  ability.  I  have  always 
thought  you  were  too  severe  in  your  judgment  of 
Edward." 

Mr.  Heathcote,  in  spite  of  his  touch  for  Chopin 
and  fine  eye  for  water-colours,  was  sufficiently  of  this 
world  to  see  that  it  would  not  be  altogether  amiss  if 
Cynthia  could  be  brought  to  regard  with  some  kind- 
ness the  son  of  his  neighbour  Sir  James  Cargill.  He 
knew  that  independence  and  force  of  will  like  hers 
were  scarcely  fitted  to  the  married  state  j  was  well 
aware,  moreover,  that  her  force  was  wholly  beyond  the 
range  of  mathematical  calculations — her  impetuosity, 
a  decided  wilfulness,  and  a  fatal  obstinacy  rendered  her 
moods  peculiarly  various :  if  she  married  at  all,  her 
husband  should  not  be  too  much  given  to  mental 
analysis.  Now  Edward  Cargill  was  the  son  of  a  rich 
baronet,  was  a  man  of  quiet  tastes  and  iron  nerves. 
He  held  few  opinions,  and  these  were  of  the  general- 
principles  order  j  he  thought  the  natural  instincts 
extremely  natural,  and  had  no  Theory  of  Life  beyond 
that  of  taking  the  world  as  he  found  it.  He  could 
sympathize  with  A,  who  pulled  down  temples,  and 
admire  B,  who  raised  them  up  again,  but  he  never 
gave  more  than  a  smile — and  perhaps  a  guinea 
subscription — to  either.  Thus  he  was  an  extremely 
forbearing,  mild-tempered  young  fellow,  who  struck 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  25 

the  Rector  as  peculiarly  adapted  to  a  woman  of 
Cynthia's  disposition.  It  was  a  patent  truth  that 
Edward  was  only  too  anxious  to  prove  his  adaptability : 
Cynthia  alone  was  inscrutable,  gloomy,  and  reserved 
in  the  matter. 

"  I  detest  sound  common  sense,"  said  that  young 
lady,  in  reply  to  her  father's  remark,  "  particularly  in 
Edward.  Beef  and  common  sense  and  Edward  are  to 
me  synonymous  terms.  What  a  capital  husband  he 
would  make  Agatha  !  " 

"My  dear  child,  that  is  a  little  unkind,"  said  the 
Rector,  with  a  curious  twitch  of  his  upper  lip. 
"Agatha  is  a  dear,  good  girl — far  too  good  for  any 
ordinary  man.  If  you  really  think  that  Edward  is  so 
utterly  uninteresting,  why  should  you  be  willing  to 
couple  his  name  with  your  sister's  ?  " 

Cynthia's  eyes  began  to  dance.  "  Because,"  she 
said,  "  he  is  so  tremendously  appreciative,  and  Agatha 
likes  to  be  appreciated.  If  I  married,  I  should  want 
to  do  some  of  the  appreciating  myself;  it  would  be 
just  possible  for  Agatha  to  forego  that  luxury." 

At  that  moment  a  footstep  was  heard  outside,  the 
door  opened,  and  Agatha  herself  walked  into  the  room. 
She  was  very  tall  and  slim — decidedly  elegant.  Next 
to  her  elegance  one  would  notice  her  placidity.  Then 
in  their  order  one  would  naturally  admire  her  blue 
eyes,  her  pink  and  white  skin,  and  her  beautiful  smooth 
braids  of  yellow  hair.  She  started  a  little — ever  so 
little,  of  course — as  her  eyes  fell  on  Cynthia's  hat,  but 
her  smile,  which  was  sweet,  patient,  and  habitual, 
never  wavered. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  interrupt  your  work,  papa,"  she 
began.  The  Rector  looked  confused,  and  dipped  his. 


26  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

pen  with  immense  energy  into  the  ink-pot.  "But 
Aunt  Theodosia  has  asked  me  to  tell  you  that  she  has 
heard  from  Lady  Cargill,  and  they  are  all  coming." 

"  What  on  earth  shall  I  wear  ?  "  said  Cynthia.  "  I 
wonder  whether  I  can  make  something  between  now 
and  seven." 

"Your  clothes  are  always  in  such  sad  need  ol 
repair,"  said  Agatha.  "  If  you  remember,  I  begged 
you  to  get  a  new  dinner-dress  weeks  ago.  I  think, 
though,  we  need  not  trouble  papa  with  these  small 
matters." 

The  Rector  blamed  himself  for  wishing  that  Agatha 
were  a  shade  less  respectful  and  considerate.  He  could 
scarcely  admit  to  his  own  conscience — much  less  con- 
fide the  melancholy  truth  to  his  eldest  daughter — that 
he  was  more  in  the  mood  for  discussing  gowns  than 
writing  a  sermon.  But  such  indeed  was  the  case. 
He  dimly  felt  that  thsre  were  disadvantages  in  living 
with  a  creature  who  had  too  keen  a  sense  of  duty  and 
the  fitness  of  things. 

"  I  am  glad  for  your  sake,  papa,  that  they  can 
come,"  said  Agatha,  sweetly  j  "  it  will  be  such  a 
complete  change  for  you  after  your  hard  morning." 

The  Hon.  and  Rev.  gentleman  glanced  nervously  at 
the  blank  sheet  before  him  and  the  "  //  is  the  spirit  that 
quickenetb  :  the  flesh  profiteth  nothing" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it  will  be  pleasant,  certainly." 

Agatha  moved  to  the  door  and  held  it  open  for  a 
few  seconds,  hoping  that  Cynthia  would  accept  the 
hint  and  leave  the  Rector  in  peace.  But  Cynthia 
never  stirred. 

"  Are  you  coming,  dear  ? "  said  Agatha,  with  the 
merest  touch  of  reproach  in  her  voice. 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  27 

"I  was  just  thinking,"  said  Cynthia,  dreamily, 
"  how  hideous  I  shall  look  in  my  old  Pongee  !  "  But 
she  followed  her  sister  out  of  the  room. 

Provence,  meanwhile,  by  discreet  questioning  had 
learnt  from  his  landlady  that  the  flat  house  was  the 
Rectory :  that  the  Rector's  daughters  were  considered 
beauties :  that  their  names  were  respectively  Miss 
Agatha  and  Miss  Cynthia :  that  Miss  Agatha  was 
a  good,  Christian  young  lady :  that  Miss  Cynthia  was 
fascinating  but  not  altogether  what  a  clergyman's 
daughter  ought  to  be.  She  was  too  gay-hearted,  and 
never  joined  in  the  hymns  at  church.  He  longed  to 
ask  more,  but  was  afraid  lest  he  might  seem  over- 
interested,  so  he  changed  the  subject  with  unnecessary 
haste  to  market-gardening,  and  listened  patiently,  if 
unhappily,  to  a  long  account  of  potato  blight. 

He  found  himself  at  the  Rectory  gate  that  evening 
with  a  large  and  entirely  new  kindliness  in  his  heart 
for  the  whole  human  race,  and  a  generous  (and  also 
new)  tolerance  for  human  failings  in  general.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  so  far  as  life  was  concerned  the 
darkness  was  made  light  and  the  crooked  straight. 
To  feel  this  and  yet  not  know  why  he  felt  it  was 
delightful  and  sufficient.  This  mood,  however,  did 
not  last — possibly  because  Cynthia  was  not  in  sight, 
probably  because  he  was  a  man  whose  passion  for 
analysis  would  make  him  pick  a  rainbow  to  pieces. 
The  horrid  suspicion  seized  him  that  he  might  be 
deceiving  himself — that  he  was  not  after  all  so  anxious 
to  see  his  newly-found  goddess — that  he  had  not  in 
reality  been  counting  the  hours  since  he  had  first  seen 
her  till  the  time  drew  near  to  meet  her  again.  He 
decided  to  forget — if  possible — his  folly  and  cool  his 


2  8  Some  TLmotions  and  a  Moral. 

disordered  imagination  by  a  rigid  course  of  vegetable 
diet — that  is  to  say  when  he  returned  to  his  lodgings 
on  Monday !  By  this  time  he  was  not  only  inside  the 
house  but  had  his  foot  on  the  threshold  of  the  drawing- 
room — he  heard  the  hum  of  several  voices — he  was 
conscious  of  some  half-dozen  figures — he  saw  but  one. 
She  wore  a  gown  of  less  artless  design  than  her  white 
muslin  of  the  night  before :  her  hair  was  more 
fashionably  arranged,  there  was  a  franker  suggestion 
of  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil  about  her  whole 
person :  her  eyes  gleamed  with  mischief,  with  con- 
fidence in  her  own  beauty  and  again  more  mischief. 
She  had  been  anxiously  watching  the  door  for  his 
arrival ;  she  knew  quite  well  that  he  was  the  stranger 
of  the  night  before — strangers  were  rare  in  Little 
Speenham — yet  now  he  was  present  she  wondered 
why  she  had  wished  for  the  meeting.  She  was  afraid 
he  would  look  too  pleased  to  see  her !  The  thought 
crossed  her  mind  that  he  must  be  weak — and  she  hated 
weakness.  A  man  of  strong  will  would  have  struggled 
longer  against  her  fascination.  The  mischief  in  her 
eyes  died  away — she  felt  dissatisfied  with  human 
nature.  But  as  she  approached  Provence  she  saw  that 
his  expression  was  cold,  even  stern  j  she  found  no 
trace  of  enthusiasm  in  his  bearing.  He  eyed  her 
beauty  with  calm ;  her  toilette  with  indifference :  his 
bow  and  smile  were  courteous — frigidly  courteous — 
nothing  more.  At  first  she  was  relieved — then  piqued 
— finally  humiliated,  but  he  rose  mountains  high  in 
her  respect.  The  reason  for  Provence's  manner  was 
briefly  this  :  He  had  suddenly  grown  self-conscious  ; 
he  had  practised  restraint  too  long  to  give  way 
gracefully  to  the  sway  of  impulse.  To  conceal  his 


Some  Emotions  and  a  "Moral.  29 

embarrassment,  therefore,  he  had  assumed  an  unfelt 
stoicism — not  so  much  to  deceive  Cynthia  as  himself. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  were  able  to  come,"  said  Lady 
Theodosia.  "  My  brother  has  told  me  so  much  about 
you  that  I  quite  feel  as  though  we  had  met  before  in 
some  other  state — the  sort  of  delightful  thing,  you 
know,  these  wicked,  charming  Buddhists  tell  us  about. 
Or  am  I  confusing  Buddhists  with  Platonists  ? — it 
would  be  so  like  me.  What  a  thing  it  is  to  be  an 
unlearned  woman  ! "  Lady  Theodosia  had  many 
methods  in  conversation ;  the  artless  and  ignorant 
style  she  found  most  useful  for  the  subjection  of 
Elderly  Science.  Provence  was  not  elderly — she  was 
not  altogether  certain  that  he  was  scientific,  but  she 
classed  him  among  abnormals,  and  from  her  point  of 
view  it  came  to  the  same  thing.  "  One  point,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "  is  a  blessing.  Neither  of  the  girls 
could  fancy  a  man  who  wore  such  shoes,"  so  she  left 
him  with  Cynthia  and  turned  to  Lady  Cargill.  The 
Baronet's  wife  was  a  very  erect,  well-covered  woman 
about  fifty  or  thereabouts,  with  a  mild  gaze  and 
agreeable  manners.  She  did  not  convey  the  irritating 
impression  of  having  been  a  beauty  in  her  youth,  but 
looked  as  though  she  had  been  born  with  placid  blonde 
hair,  a  pince-nez^  and  an  elderly  expression. 

"I  hope  you  are  not  delaying  dinner  for  Edward, 
my  dear  Lady  Theodosia,"  she  said,  "because  that 
would  distress  him  greatly.  He  only  arrived  from 
Speenham  as  we  left,  and  of  course  we  could  not 
wait  for  him.  He  has  been  to  see  about  the  new 
cottages." 

"  Ah  yes,"  chimed  in  Sir  James,  who  stood  with 
the  Rector  in  front  of  the  fireplace  and  concealed 


30  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

Lady  Theodosia's  careful  summer  arrangement  of 
ferns,  Virginia  cork,  and  red  art-pots,  "my  boy  is 
becoming  an  idealist.  Now  my  experience  of  ideal- 
ists is  this — they  think  very  high  but  act  on  the  whole 
rather  low,  and  make  uncommonly  bad  landlords.  I 
don't  believe  in  these  Oxford  lads,  all  theory  and  no 
experience.  This  is  an  age  of  immature  cause  and 
premature  result."  Sir  James  had  not  the  smallest 
idea  of  what  he  meant,  but  he  thought  it  sounded  so 
tersely  put  and  so  much  like  a  leading  article  that  he 
repeated  it  again.  "  Yes — immature  cause  and  prema- 
ture result.  We  eat  the  blossom  in  preference  to  the 
fruit,  and  no  wonder  we  feel  empty."  (He  rather 
prided  himself  on  his  graceful  gift  for  metaphor.) 
"  Our  universities  have  become  mere  forcing  grounds 
to  supply  an  unnatural  appetite  for  the  insipid  and 
costly.  Let  my  boy  stick  to  his  boat-club  and  Roman 
law — that's  all  he's  good  for — and  leave  model  cottages 
alone.  What  on  earth  is  the  use  of  bath-rooms  and 
patent  drains  to  the  agricultural  labourer — what  does 
he  know  about  microbes  ?  "  It  must  not  be  supposed 
that  Sir  James's  impassioned  rhetoric  was  due  to  the 
inspiration  of  the  moment :  all  his  sentiments  were 
darkly  pondered  and  duly  packed  down  into  top-heavy 
sentences  in  a  Commonplace  Book  before  he  delivered 
them  to  the  world.  This  evening,  however,  his  dis- 
course was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  his  son — 
the  ostensible  object  of  his  remarks.  Young  Cargill 
was  undeniably  well-favoured,  and  bore  himself  like 
a  gentleman — although  he  lacked  the  air  of  distinction 
which  characterized  Godfrey  Provence.  After  Lady 
Theodosia  and  the  Rector  had  greeted  him  he  seated 
himself  by  Cynthia,  who  blushed  with  annoyance  at 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  31 

the  undisguised  admiration  in  his  eyes.  Provence, 
however,  saw  the  blush  and  already  saw  himself 
miserably  presenting  congratulations  at  their  wedding. 
In  despair  he  left  them  together  and-  turned  to 
Agatha,  who  certainly  looked  extremely  well  in 
black  lace  and  yellow  roses. 

"  I  feel  I  ought  to  ask  you,"  she  said,  "  whether 
you  found  your  journey  down  very  tiresome.  Our 
train-service  is  so  bad,  and  I  always  think  that  un- 
necessary waste  of  time  almost  amounts  to  physical 
suffering  if  one  has  an  active  mind.  I  hope  you  pro- 
vided yourself  with  books."  She  had  gathered  from 
Cynthia's  random  remarks  made  in  the  intervals  of 
dressing  for  dinner  that  Mr.  Provence  was  a  writer 
and  probably  learned.  She  thought  that  her  little 
speech  would  fall  agreeably  on  his  ears — that  it  would 
be  a  delicate  way  of  showing  that  his  fame  and 
cultured  tastes  were  not  unknown  to  her. 

"  I  amused  myself  by  looking  out  of  the  window," 
he  replied,  innocently,  "  although  I  did  just  glance  at 
a  very  diverting  tale  about  a  French  poodle  and  a 
bishop  in  The  Piccadilly  News.  Have  you  seen  it  ?  " 

Agatha  was  too  lady-like  to  stare,  too  calm  to  gasp, 
but  she  felt  grateful  to  the  parlour-maid  for  announcing 
dinner. 

At  the  dinner-table,  which  was  round  for  the  occa- 
sion, Provence,  who  had  taken  in  Lady  Theodosia, 
found  himself  next  to  Cynthia  and  Edward  Cargill. 
The  more  he  tried  to  convince  himself  that  she  and 
Edward  were  desperately  and  mutually  in  love,  the 
more  beautiful  and  desirable  she  appeared.  "  And 
what  can  she  see  in  him  ?  "  he  thought,  and  took 
a  savage  pleasure  in  picturing  Edward  some  twenty 


32  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

years  hence,  fat,  red-faced  and  hearty — the  replica 
of  his  worthy  father  who  sat  opposite — the  typical 
country-gentleman  of  ancient  lineage,  good  cellar, 
and  moderate  views. 

"  I  once  read  a  Greek  play,  you  know,  with  a  crib," 
Lady  Theodosia  was  explaining,  "  skipping  the  par- 
ticles, of  course,  and  those  awfully  fascinating  choruses. 
I  found  them  too  engrossing — and  it  does  not  do  for 
a  woman  to  get  too  absorbed  in  one  particular  thing. 
Her  social  duties  demand  that  her  interests  should  be 
scattered." 

Conversation  wended  its  blithesome  way  through 
Lord  Todhunter's  new  conservatories,  paused  at  the 
disgraceful  state  of  the  high-road,  brightened  con- 
siderably at  Farmer  Drew's  prize  oxen,  but  came  to 
a  stand-still  at  the  Future  of  England.  Perhaps  this 
was  due  to  Sir  James,  who  took  a  just  pride  in  his 
power  of  concentration,  and  had  no  mind  for  the 
Future  of  anything,  with  stewed  sweet-breads  on  his 
plate.  The  Present,  with  a  near  background  of  cham- 
pignons a  la  creme^  was  all  sufficient.  So  he  relapsed 
into  silence  and  the  unspeakable  joy  of  mastication. 
Cynthia  peeped  at  Provence  from  under  her  lashes. 
She  caught  his  eye  and  found  it  sympathetic.  In  a 
moment  the  whole  aspect  of  things  was  changed  for 
both  of  them.  Provence  found  a  mysterious  joy  in 
being  bored  since  she  was  bored  too.  Cynthia — more 
moderate  in  her  emotions — felt  that  the  evening  might 
not  prove  so  dull  as  she  had  first  feared  it  would  be. 
To  their  common  satisfaction,  general  conversation 
girded  up  its  loins  once  more  and  attacked  the  local 
County  Council. 

"I   was   listening   to  the   nightingales  when   you 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  33 

passed  last  night,"  she  said,  when  the  Rector,  and 
Sir  James,  and  Lady  Theodosia  were  fairly  started  on 
their  campaign  ;  "  they  have  been  silent  for  weeks." 

"  I  thought  that  this  part  of  the  world  was  noted 
for  its  nightingales,"  said  Provence,  wondering  if  it 
was  profane  to  admire  a  goddess's  throat. 

"  I  believe  there  is  some  such  boast,"  she  said  j 
"  but  have  you  never  noticed  that  places,  like  people, 
find  their  reputation — particularly  if  it  is  good — suffi- 
ciently useful  without  the  fatigue  of  living  up  to  it  ? " 
Provence  did  not  see  the  highest  type  of  feminine 
excellence  in  the  Miltonian  Eve,  but  he  thought  a 
woman  should  believe  easily.  In  Cynthia's  case  he 
began  to  fear  that  this  bewitching  characteristic  was 
entirely  absent. 

"  I  see  you  are  a  cynic,"  he  said. 

"  Oh  no,"  she  said,  quickly,  "  I  haven't  got  a  label. 
I'm  afraid  I'm  too  much  guided  by  what  somebody — 
I  forget  who — calls  a  c  feeling  in  the  bones,'  to  make 
a  pretence  to  the  feeblest  kind  of  philosophy."  Then 
she  sighed.  "Don't  you  think,"  she  said,  with  an 
expression  of  touching  simplicity,  "  it  would  be  much 
easier  to  be  good  if  we  left  everything  to  our  in- 
stincts ?  Reason — what  learned  people  call  reason — 
seems  so  much  more  artificial." 

Provence  felt  an  admiration  for  that  feminine  daring 
which  will  rush  in  where  a  bishop  might  fear  to  tread, 
but  his  mental  habits  did  not  allow  him  to  answer  her 
in  a  hurry.  He  had  his  own  ideas  on  the  subject,  no 
doubt,  but  would  have  required  several  sheets  of  fools- 
cap on  which  to  express  them — inadequately  and  with 
the  meaning  between  the  lines. 

"  You  are  plunging  into  deep  water,"  he  said,  "  and 
4 


34  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

that  is  dangerous."  This  he  was  well  aware  was  just 
what  any  one  else  might  have  said.  The  thought 
was  irritating,  since,  for  some  reason,  he  was  ex- 
tremely anxious  to  appear  rather  different  from  the 
ordinary  diner-out — to  her.  He  did  not  think  him- 
self different,  nor  did  he  have  the  mean  ambition  to 
seem  what  he  was  not  ;  he  only  knew  that  if  he  could 
find  favour  in  her  sight  even  in  a  small  degree — and 
he  had  heard  that  women  in  their  delicious  generosity 
could,  under  given  conditions,  discover  what  was  best 
in  a  man  when  the  majority  of  his  fellows  saw  little 
but  the  indifferent — it  would  be  something  to  find 
courage  in. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Cynthia,  suddenly,  "  I  made 
sure  I  should  see  you  again — when  you  asked  me  the 
way  to  East  Sheerwell  yesterday  ?  " 

This  was  probably  the  most  unstudied  remark  she 
had  made  that  evening — for  she  found  few  things 
more  difficult  than  giving  herself  to  the  world,  as  it 
were,  unvarnished.  The  strongest  element  in  her 
character  was  that  which,  for  want  of  a  better  name, 
we  may  call  the  histrionic  instinct.  Life  to  her  was 
a  series  of  situations  in  which  she  invariably  figured  as 
the  heroine — a  heroine  who  was  always  charming  and 
graceful,  with  feeling  enough  to  be  interesting  but 
not  enough  to  be  tiresome.  If  she  wept  she  was 
careful  to  dry  her  eyes  before  they  grew  red — if  she 
laughed  it  was  to  show  her  exquisite  teeth,  for  her 
sense  of  humour  was  more  grim  than  merry  ;  if  she 
talked  nonsense,  but  looked  the  key  to  all  philosophies, 
especially  those  of  earth,  as  she  did  that  evening,  she 
felt  she  was  playing  Juliet — a  Juliet  who  had  travelled 
and  was  the  niece  of  Lady  Theodosia,  for  the  be- 


Some  TLmotions  and  a  Moral.  35 

wilderment  of  a  Romeo  who,  though  no  longer  a 
youth  and  certainly  not  possessed  of  the  romantic 
air,  had  at  all  events  a  well-built  figure,  considerable 
fire  in  his  eyes,  and  was  the  "  makings  of  a  success." 
Juliet  was  a  role  she  could  rarely  indulge  in,  nor 
indeed  was  it  a  role  she  particularly  cared  for.  It  was 
so  hard  to  find  a  Romeo  worth  playing  to  !  With 
a  woman's  quickness  she  saw  that  Provence  was  a 
man  of  unusual  refinement  and  delicate  feeling — he 
would  never  take  too  much  for  granted.  She 
promised  herself  some  excitement  in  finding  the 
limit  to  his  self-restraint. 

Edward  Cargill,  meantime,  began  to  feel  hardly 
used.  He,  after  all,  had  led  Cynthia  in  to  dinner,  and 
she  had  not  addressed  him  directly  once,  except  to 
ask  his  opinion  of  that  year's  growth  of  asparagus. 
Agatha  had,  no  doubt,  done  her  best  to  atone  for  her 
sister's  want  of  manners,  and  had  expressed  her  views 
with  much  propriety  and  no  little  erudition  on  the 
recent  excavations  in  Asia  Minor,  to  which  Edward 
had  replied  that  excavating  and  exploring  were  awfully 
jolly  for  those  who  liked  them,  but  he  didn't  like 
them.  Here  Sir  James  came  puffing  to  the  rescue 
by  inquiring — certainly  with  some  want  of  relevance 
— whether  any  more  boys  in  the  church  choir  were 
down  with  the  influenza.  Nor  did  he  stop  there  — 
for  the  choir  reminded  him  of  music,  and  music  re- 
minded him  of  an  article  he  had  read  that  morning  on 
the  increased  importation  of  cat-gut.  Cat-gut  very 
naturally  suggested  cats,  and  cats  brought  the  Egyp- 
tians— whom  he  had  quite  forgotten — to  his  mind. 
And  Lady  Theodosia  had  carefully  mentioned  in  her 
note  that  the  new  man  was  an  Egyptologist.  Egypt 


36  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

was  plainly  the  topic  of  all  others  for  general  dis- 
cussion. He  commenced  with  a  loud  cough  :  "  Now 
as  to  the  Egyptians ! "  he  began.  The  company 
looked  bewildered  but  attentive.  "  Now  as  to  the 
Egyptians.  They  are  an  interesting  race,  if  you 
like."  Here  he  looked  at  Provence  and  smiled  en- 
couragingly. "I  can  fully  understand  a  man  devoting 
his  life  and  energy  to  a  close  study  of  their  immense 
Past.  I  don't  pretend  to  know  much  about  it  myself," 
he  added,  with  magnificent  modesty, "  it  is  naturally 
matter  for  the  specialist ;  but  in  a  quiet  way  and  in 
one's  library  of  a  morning,  I  say  one  would  be — well 
— one  would  be  an  ass  not  to  feel  a  certain  amount  of 
awe  at  the  antiquity  of  the  Pyramids."  Then  he 
stared  so  very  hard  at  Provence  that  he  felt  con- 
strained to  make  some  remark. 

"  I  fear,"  he  said,  "  that  indifference  as  to  the  Past 
of  Egypt  is  far  more  common  than  you  suppose. 
You,  no  doubt,  have  studied  the  subject  seriously." 

"Merely  as  a  dilettante"  said  Sir  James,  lightly, 
"the  merest  dilettante?  As  he  had  spent  some 
twenty-five  minutes  that  morning  skipping  through 
"  Egypt "  in  the  Encyclopaedia,  he  felt  that  in 
describing  himself  as  a  dilettante  he  had,  if  anything, 
underrated  his  knowledge.  To  what  lengths  the 
ingenuous  gentleman  would  have  carried  his  discourse 
it  is  impossible  to  say  j  but  as  Mr.  Heathcote's  con- 
science did  not  allow  him  to  indulge  in  sleeve-laughter 
at  a  guest's  expense — particularly  when  that  guest 
was  an  estimable,  kind-hearted  man  who  owned  the 
finest  peach-houses  in  the  county  and  was  a  liberal 
subscriber  to  the  parish  charities — he  determined  to 
set  matters  right. 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  37 

"  Sir  James  is  taking  it  for  granted  that  you  have 
inherited  your  father's  tastes,"  he  said,  and  looked  at 
Provence  with  a  meaning  smile. 

"  Then  I  must  own  at  once  that  I  have  not,"  said 
Provence.  "  I  may  not  even  call  myself,  with  Sir 
James,  a  dilettante  in  the  study  of  Egyptology.  I 
have  read  everything  my  father  wrote,  but  my  interest 
has  been  mainly  personal — that  is  to  say,  I  thought 
more  of  the  writer  than  the  thing  written  about." 

Cynthia  was  here  just  a  little  reminded  o'f  her  own 
attitude  towards  her  father's  sermons. 

"Then,"  said  Sir  James,  surprise  mingling  with 
relief  on  his  radiant  countenance,  "you  are  not  an 
Egyptologist,  after  all !  "  Provence  could  not  imagine 
why  Lady  Theodosia  looked  so  much  happier  and 
begged  him  to  take  more  cream  with  his  strawberries. 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  really  smiled  on  him 
since  his  arrival. 

When  the  women  returned  to  the  drawing-room, 
Agatha  expressed  a  fear  that  their  new  acquaintance 
was  a  trifle  superficial,  and  certainly  a  little  harsh — 
she  would  not  say  disrespectful — when  he  referred  to 
his  father's  noble  contributions  to  learning. 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  said  Cynthia,  who  was 
still  thinking  of  the  sermons. 

"I  may  be  mistaken,  dear,"  murmured  Agatha; 
"it  is  best  not  to  be  over-positive,  one  way  or  the 
other,  in  judging  others.  He  is  not  at  all  bad-looking 
— for  a  clever  man.  I  dare  say  some  people  would 
call  him  handsome,  in  a  peculiar  way." 

"  I  should  never  dream  of  calling  him  even  passable," 
said  Cynthia,  who  was  perhaps  in  a  teasing  mood. 
"  There  is  a  certain  refinement  about  his  face,  and  his 


38  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

eyes  are  intelligent  and  rather  a  nice  colour.  His 
mouth  has  a  great  deal  of  character,  although  it  has  a 
suggestion  of  weakness.  His  nose  and  chin  suit  the 
rest  of  him  well  enough,  and  there  may  be  a  sort  of — 
well,  classic  grace  about  his  head." 

"  I  didn't  notice  all  that,"  said  Agatha,  softly. 

"I  was  sitting  next  to  him,  you  must  remember," 
said  Cynthia,  with  a  cold  voice  and  hot  cheeks. 

"Well,"  said  Lady  Theodosia,  "at  any  rate  he 
seems  a  pleasant,  gentlemanly  man,  and,  I  should  say, 
very  easy  to  amuse.  It  is  an  immense  comfort  to  find 
that  he  is  an  ordinary  mortal  with  the  usual  tastes. 
I  wonder  if  he  likes  marrow-bones — we  might  have 
them  for  luncheon  to-morrow." 

"  Since  he  is  such  an  inoffensive  person,"  chimed  in 
Lady  Cargill,  "  I  wish  dear  Edward  would  take  to 
him.  I  sometimes  fear  that  he  finds  home  a  little 
dull  after  Oxford.  Oxford  must  be  so  cheerful." 
Lady  Cargill  had  married  young,  and  had  spent  her 
life— with  the  exception  of  a  few  brief  days  at  the 
Great  Exhibition,  a  tour  round  the  Lakes,  and  a  trip 
to  Switzerland- — at  Northwold  Hall,  her  husband's 
country  seat.  An  imaginary  heart-affection  was  her 
excuse  for  avoiding  the  gaieties  of  London  and  a  town 
house;  and  as  her  accomplishments,  besides  playing 
"  The  Minstrel  Boy  "  (with  variations)  on  the  piano, 
lay  in  the  direction  of  her  household  and  the  care  of 
other  women's  babies,  it  was  perhaps  just  as  well  that 
she  confined  her  calls  and  advice  within  a  six-mile 
radius.  "  For  some  reasons,"  she  continued,  after  a 
pause,  "  I  should  not  be  sorry  to  see  my  dear  boy 
engaged  to  a  suitable  person."  She  glanced  at  Agatha 
as  she  spoke,  for  although  she  was  timidly  attached  to 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  39 

Cynthia,  she  was  only  seized  with  nervous  palpitation 
when,  in  nightmares,  she  beheld  her  as  the  possible 
mistress  of  Northwold  Hall  and  the  model  dairy. 
Besides,  putting  aside  all  other  considerations,  she  had 
a  firm  conviction  that  true  refinement  and  good 
breeding  found  their  only  outward  and  visible  ex- 
pression in  sloping  shoulders,  a  straight,  thin  nose,  and 
an  extremely  high  forehead.  Agatha  possessed  all 
these  qualifications — Cynthia  none  of  them.  But 
Agatha  was  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  Classical 
Review  when  Lady  Cargill  spoke,  and  if  she  saw  the 
look  she  did  not  appear  to  understand  its  significance. 
When,  however,  Edward  came  into  the  room  a  few 
minutes  later,  she  smiled  at  him  so  prettily  that  even 
his  mother  thought  him  an  oaf  for  not  betraying  a 
little  rapture.  As  it  was,  he  seemed  decidedly  gloomy, 
and  after  threading  his  way  rather  aimlessly  among 
the  numerous  bandy-legged  chairs  and  squat  tables 
which  Lady  Theodosia  had  purchased  by  post  through 
the  inspiriting  catalogue  of  an  Art  Furnisher,  he 
settled  himself  near  Cynthia. 

"  We  were  just  saying,  my  boy,"  said  Lady  Cargill, 
with  the  unconscious  guile  of  a  perfectly  truthful 
woman,  "  how  agreeably  surprised  we  are  in  this  Mr. 
Provence."  Edward  did  not  look  so  overjoyed  as  he 
might  have  done  at  this  piece  of  intelligence. 

"  Aunt  Theodosia  is  so  rejoiced  to  find  that  he 
is  not  learned,"  said  Agatha,  "  and  really  I  cannot 
imagine  how  we  all  managed  to  get  such  a  mistaken 
idea  of  his  knowledge.  The  moment  I  spoke  to  him 
I  felt  the  incongruity  between  his  reputation  and — 
well,  his  way  of  expressing  himself  generally." 

Edward  could  be  jealous  and  could  lose  his  temper, 


40  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

but  he  was  not  mean-spirited.  "  Oh,  well,"  he  said, 
"  I  dare  say  he  knows  a  lot,  only  where  should  we  be 
if  he  jawed  on  big  things  ?  "  Cynthia  liked  him  so 
much  for  this  that  she  looked  him  straight  in  the  face 
and  smiled — an  action  which  made  so  much  difference 
to  Edward,  that  he  felt  almost  compensated  for  her 
behaviour  at  dinner. 

u  I  think  we  might  have  some  music,  Cynthia," 
said  the  Rector,  who  entered  at  that  moment,  followed 
by  Sir  James  and  Provence,  the  former  of  whom  had 
detained  them  in  the  conservatory  to  dilate  on  the 
merits  of  his  new  head-gardener  and  some  freshly 
imported  guano. 

Cynthia  went  to  the  piano,  and  played  with  much 
passion  and  bewildering  inaccuracy  the  noisiest  of  the 
Rhapsodies  Hongrohes.  Her  enthusiasm  and  easy 
familiarity  with  the  loud  pedal  were  almost  pro- 
fessional. Until  she  had  finished  her  remarkable 
performance  Provence  held  his  breath  and  all  but 
wished  himself  away.  Then  he  forgot  everything — 
even  her  want  of  culture  (as  he  understood  it,  that  is 
to  say,  for  culture  of  a  sort  was  a  stalled  ox  at  the 
Rectory)  and  the  wrong  notes — in  contemplating  the 
beautiful  flush  which  followed  her  exertions.  In 
common  with  many  who  are  wise  by  profession  and 
not  a  few  who  are  similarly  gifted  by  nature, 
Provence's  wisdom  was  of  far  greater  service  to  his 
friends — when  they  would  avail  themselves  of  it — than 
to  himself.  His  discernment  in  reading  character, 
which  belonged  rather  to  an  almost  feminine  instinct 
than  to  academic  logic,  and  was  part  of  his  literary 
faculty,  was  completely  overbalanced  in  the  case  of 
Cynthia  by  the  strong  personal  magnetism  she  ha4 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  41 

possessed  for  him  from  the  first.  To  have  discovered 
the  force  of  physical  attraction  was  a  fact  in  itself  so 
engrossing  that  all  other  considerations  were,  if  not 
forgotten,  at  least  permitted  to  slumber.  Even  as  she 
played  he  was  vaguely  conscious  that  she  revealed 
much  of  her  own  nature  in  that  strange  blending  of 
force  and  uncertainty  with  which  she  rendered  music. 
To  have  felt  this,  no  matter  how  dimly,  was  a  step 
towards  imperfect  vision.  He  could  never  be  com- 
pletely blind.  He  had  no  further  opportunity  to  speak 
with  Cynthia  that  evening,  for  Edward  never  left  her 
side.  So,  obeying  his  artistic  instinct  to  study,  at  all 
hazards,  something,  he  turned  to  Agatha.  He  felt 
bound  to  admit  that  this  young  lady  was  extremely 
pretty  and  plumbable.  That  is  to  say,  he  found  no 
difficulty  in  reading  her  amiable  character  and  learning 
her  humbly  expressed,  feminine,  and  correct  opinions. 
He  did  not  always  agree  with  her,  it  is  true,  but  as 
she  never  by  any  possible  chance  thought  anything 
which  was  not  endorsed  by  at  least  two  clearly 
recognized  authorities,  the  cause  rested  with  his 
idiosyncrasies  and  not  her  ignorance.  Their  differ- 
ences, therefore,  could  never  be  otherwise  than  polite  : 
he  was  not  at  all  sure  from  his  brief  experience  of 
Cynthia  that  he  could  promise  so  much  where  she 
was  concerned.  To  begin  with,  she,  too,  had 
idiosyncrasies,  and  it  is  assuredly  more  difficult  to 
maintain  one's  equanimity  in  argument  with  a  young 
woman  whose  chief  aim  in  discussion  is  to  prove  that 
somebody,  though  not  herself,  must  be  a  fool,  than 
with  an  intelligent,  well-read  lady  who  squeaks 
musically  with  touching  self-effacement  under  the 
colossal  mask  of  Carlyle  or  Browning. 


42  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

"  That  Provence  is  a  very  decent  fellow,"  said  the 
Rector,  when  the  Cargills  had  departed,  Provence  had 
been  shown  to  his  room,  and  Lady  Theodosia  had 
retired  to  her  bed  ;  "  he  is  a  great  improvement  on 
his  father."  Agatha  opened  her  china-blue  eyes  and 
wondered  whether  she  ought  not  to  mention  the 
French  poodle  and  the  bishop. 

"  I  don't  think  I  like  him,"  said  Cynthia  ;  "  he  has 
a  way  of  speaking  meekly  and  looking  aggressive.  I 
wonder  if  he  is  conceited." 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  Rector,  "  I  never  saw  a  man — 
a  man,  that  is  to  say,  of  his  ability — who  was  less  of 
the  egoist." 

"  At  all  events,"  said  Cynthia,  "  you  must  own  he 
is  hard  to  get  at.  I  believe  he  has  a  pasha-like 
contempt  for  women." 

"  That  never  struck  me,"  said  Agatha.  "  I  should 
say  he  was  much  too  apathetic  to  have  a  contempt  for 
anything." 

"  Apathetic  !  I  should  never  call  you  a  good  judge 
of  faces,  Agatha.  He  probably  feels  too  much — not 
too  little.  There  is  a  feminine  sensitiveness  about  his 
mouth." 

"I  understood  you  to  say  his  mouth  was  weak, 
when  we  were  talking  after  dinner."  Cynthia  was 
certainly  provoking. 

"Is  not  feminine  sensitiveness  something  like 
weakness  in  a  man  ?  "  said  Cynthia.  "  I  don't  see 
that  I  have  contradicted  myself." 

It  was  not  until  she  found  herself  in  the  solitude  of 
her  own  bedroom  that  the  uncomfortable  conscious- 
ness seized  her  of  not  having  been  pleasant.  She  was 
a  long  time  undressing,  and  tried  to  make  peace  with 


Some  TLmotions  and  a  Moral.  43 

her  conscience  by  dwelling  on  Agatha's  tiresome  habit 
of  magnifying  details.  "  For  instance,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "  if  Agatha  were  the  Creator  she  would  make 
her  beetles  all  legs  and  no  body.  One  would  think 
there  was  nothing  of  Mr.  Provence  but  a  mouth." 
But  even  then  she  was  not  hapi  /,  and  when  her  head 
was  fairly  aching  with  sophistry  (emphasized  by  the 
hair-brush)  she  marched  into  Agatha's  room,  which 
adjoined  her  own.  The  gentle  Agatha  was  already  in 
bed  and  asleep. 

"  Agatha,"  said  Cynthia,  tapping  her  shoulder 
enthusiastically  with  the  bristle-side  of  her  weapon. 
"  Agatha,  are  you  awake  ?  " 

Agatha  started  with  pain,  and  opening  her  eyes, 
stared  at  her  sister  with  something  curiously  re- 
sembling wrath.  "I  was  not  awake,"  she  said. 

"  I  only  wanted  to  tell  you,"  said  Cynthia,  "  that 
I  have  been  a  Beast  this  evening.  I  am  sorry,"  and 
then  she  returned — with  the  proud  sorrow  of  a  fallen 
angel  in  her  expression — to  her  own  apartment. 


IV. 

WHEN  Cynthia  made  her  appearance  at  breakfast 
the  next  morning,  Provence  thought  she  looked  the 
picture  of  heavenly  meekness — but  for  the  spark  of 
inextinguishable  fire  in  her  eyes.  She  wore,  too,  a 
white  cotton  gown  of  severe  simplicity — a  simplicity, 
however,  which  did  full  justice  to  her  figure.  It  was 
not  till  long  afterwards  that  he  remembered  how,  from 
the  first  day  he  had  seen  her,  her  clothes  always  seemed 
part  of  her  nature  ;  how  her  gowns,  her  hats,  her  very 
slippers  and  tortoiseshell  hairpins,  betrayed  her  mood 
no  less  than  her  eyes — certainly  more  than  her  beauti- 
ful, misleading  mouth.  She  greeted  Provence  with 
an  old-fashioned  dignity  which  made  him  feel  almost 
as  though  he  were  meeting  her  for  the  first  time.  He 
thought  of  her  manner  in  the  garden  on  that  delicious 
evening  when  she  looked  unutterable  things  at  the 
sky  and  assembled  nature :  he  would  not  decide  on 
which  occasion  she  was  most  interesting. 

Cynthia,  meanwhile,  who  appeared  to  be  deeply 
absorbed  in  her  father's  discourse  on  the  tendency  of 
modern  poetry,  was  in  reality  criticising  Provence  as 
she  had  never  criticised  him  before  and  would  never 
criticise  him  again.  It  was  a  peculiar  process,  and  she 
would  have  called  it  "making  up  her  mind"  about 
him.  It  happened  he  was  looking  his  best  •,  and, 
ignominious  as  the  thought  may  be,  who  can  deny 
that  the  whole  tenor  of  a  life  may  often  depend  on 

44 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  45 

the  mere  turning  in  or  out  of  one's  toes  at  a  critical 
moment  ?  Provence  sat  with  his  face  half  in  shadow 
— there  was  something  which  reminded  her  of  a 
portrait  by  Velasquez  in  the  pose  of  his  head  and  the 
light  on  his  features.  What  she  chose  to  call  the 
artistic  craving  in  her  nature  was  satisfied.  She  could 
call  him  picturesque.  Picturesque,  and  with  a  Future ! 
She  drew  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  under  pretence  of  steady- 
ing a  rose  which  was  half-falling  from  its  vase  on  a 
table  close  by  him  (for  with  her,  even  impulse  was 
well-tempered  with  a  sense  of  the  effective)  sat  down 
by  his  side.  He  tried  to  remember  afterwards  what 
they  had  talked  of,  but  he  could  only  recall  the  sound 
of  her  voice,  the  glance  of  her  eyes,  the  pleasure  he 
had  felt  when,  in  one  of  her  quick,  expressive  move- 
ments, she  had  touched  his  arm  to  call  attention  to  a 
vine  which  grew  outside  the  window. 

Having  once  decided  that  Provence  reminded  her  of 
a  Velasquez,  Cynthia  plunged  into  open  flirtation.  On 
one  pretence  and  another  she  encouraged  him  to  spend 
a  good  portion  of  his  time  at  the  Rectory  every  day  j 
after  a  week  or  so  pretence  was  dropped  altogether, 
and  her  family  were  given  to  understand  that  he  came 
solely  for  the  sake  of  seeing  her.  This  stage  or 
affairs  was  hailed  with  undisguised  thankfulness  by  the 
Rector,  whose  feeling  for  harmony  had  been  rudely 
jarred  by  the  necessity  for  his  acting  the  blind  dragon. 
He  had  long  lost  interest  in  Cynthia's  little  comedies  d 
deux — they  always  ended  the  same  way.  "  Provence 
is  at  least  thirty,  or  he  looks  it,"  he  said,  in  a  confi- 
dential chat  with  Lady  Theodosia ;  "  and  if  he  chooses 
to  make  a  fool  of  himself  over  a  mere  child  like 
Cynthia — a  girl  of  twenty — I  really  think  it  would  be 


46  Some   'Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

positively  indelicate  on  my  part  to  interfere.  As  for 
Cynthia,  I  should  consider  it  a  grave  error  of  judgment 
to  notice  anything  one  way  or  the  other.  These 
innocent  little  affairs  all  tend  to  mould  a  girl's  cha- 
racter ;  they  give  her  self-  confidence  :  the  more 
experience  she  has  of  men,  the  more  likely  she  will 
be  to  choose  a  good  husband."  Lady  Theodosia  said 
nothing.  She  was  waiting  for  the  point  of  the 
Rector's  observations.  '  \fter  all,  you  know,"  he 
said,  "  if  anything  should  happen,  Dobbs  thinks  a 
lot  of  him,  and  Dobbs  has  any  amount  of  influence. 
A  successful  author  makes  a  handsome  income  nowa- 
days." JLady  Theodosia,  who  could  never,  even  in 
imagination,  condescend  to  the  unpractical,  went 
through  a  swift  mental  calculation  as  to  the  amount 
of  income  necessary  for  the  maintenance  of  a  house 
in  Fitz-John's  Avenue — allowing  for  a  bi-monthly 
dinner  party,  an  evening  once  a  week,  a  fortnightly 
afternoon,  five  servants  and  a  brougham. 

"It  could  be  done  for  six  thousand  a  year,"  she 
said,  aloud,  "  and  it  would  mean  management,  even 
then.  Besides,  his  brain  might  give  out.  Just  think 
what  a  bore  that  would  be  !  " 

"We  won't  think  anything  so  uncharitable,"  said 
the  Rector,  kindly.  He  only  liked  to  contemplate  the 
cheerful — having  boundless  faith  in  the  law  of  self- 
preservation  in  the  human  character. 

"Cynthia,"  said  Lady  Theodosia,  one  day,  when 
Provence  had  left  them  after  an  unusually  long  visit, 
"  what  do  you  see  in  this  man  ? "  Now  between 
this  lady  and  her  niece  there  existed  a  feeling  which, 
though  not  affection  (for  there  are  no  Davids  and 
Jonathans  among  women),  might  very  well  be  com- 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  47 

pared  to  the  bonhomie  of  two  fellow-artists — two 
artists  who  are  respectively  convinced  that  their 
styles  are  too  distinct  to  clash  in  disagreeable  rivalry. 
So  far  as  it  lay  in  Cynthia's  disposition  to  be  confi- 
dential, she  was  confidential  with  her  aunt  j  so  far  as 
Lady  Theodosia  spoke  her  mind,  she  spoke  it  to  her 
niece  j  so  far  as  moral  influence  went,  neither  had  the 
presumption  to  attempt  anything  of  the  kind  wheie 
the  other  was  concerned.  Thus  they  always  kept 
their  tempers — a  remarkable  circumstance  in  the 
friendship  of  two  women. 

"  What  do  you  see  in  this  man  ? "  repeated  Lady 
Theodosia.  To  do  her  justice,  she  had  not  the 
smallest  concern  for  her  niece :  she  was  thinking  of 
Provence,  for  whom — in  spite  of  his  shoes — she  had 
conceived  a  liking  which  only  required  a  large  balance 
at  his  banker's  to  develop  into  auntly  affection.  "  But 
he  is  not  the  man  for  Cynthia,"  she  thought ;  "  he  has 
not  enough  of  the  brute  about  him.  A  John  Knox 
might  be  able  to  manage  her  j  and  then  a  good  deal 
would  depend  on  his  tailor."  Here  she  was  mistaken. 
Cynthia  could  excuse  considerable  eccentricity  in  the 
dress  of  a  person  of  note. 

She  blushed  P.  little  when  her  aunt  asked  her  what 
she  saw  in  Provence.  She  felt  it  almost  a  slur  on 
her  taste.  Few  women  care  to  feel  the  necessity  of 
justifying  their  preferences — least  of  all  a  woman  in 
whom  the  desire  to  be  thought  more  than  humanly 
infallible  was  the  master  passion. 

"  Don't  you  care  about  him  ?  "  she  said  at  last.  Her 
tone  was  almost  apologetic. 

"  I  think  he  is  quite  charming,"  said  Lady  Theo- 
dosia, "an  interesting  person  in  every  way.  But 


48  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

I  may  as  well  say  at  once  that  I  don't  think  you  ought 
to  flirt  with  him — he  takes  it  much  too  seriously. 
Things  cannot  remain  as  they  are  for  ever  j  there 
must  be  a  climax.  For  the  present  he  has  put  you  on 
a  pedestal  and  worships  you  afar  off,  but  sooner  or 
later  he  will  remember  that  you  are  flesh.  Man,  after 
all,  is  not  a  spirit." 

Cynthia  laughed  or — to  be  truthful  at  the  expense 
of  euphony — chuckled.  "  How  you  exaggerate  !  "  she 
said.  "  Mr.  Provence  has  come  here  for  his  health, 
and  naturally  wishes  to  be  amused.  Besides,  when 
a  man  has  been  ordered  complete  rest,  he  likes  to 
imagine  himself  in  love  with  some  woman.  It  is 
marmalade  for  the  pill.  If  I  had  not  appeared  he 
would  have  discovered  unique  attractions  in  his  land- 
lady." 

"  Why  did  he  not  choose  Agatha  ?  "  said  Lady 
Theodosia. 

Cynthia  gave  her  answer  unconsciously  by  looking 
into  the  mirror  which  faced  them.  "  My  dear  aunt," 
she  said,  "  Agatha  is  dutiful,  and  thinks  of  others  and 
reads  Hooker — she  will  no  doubt  get  a  kind  hus- 
band. But  he  will  never  be  her  lover.  Men  do  not 
love  these  still  women — they  have  a  high  opinion  ot 
them." 

"I  have  no  more  to  say,"  said  Lady  Theodosia, 
"except  this — these  literary  and  artistic  people  are 
very  dangerous.  You  never  find  two  alike,  and  the 
only  certain  thing  about  them  is  that  ultimately  they 
will  do  something  to  make  everybody  uncomfortable." 

But  she  was  not  pleased  with  her  niece  that  day. 
She  herself  was  no  doubt  very  worldly,  very  cynical 
and  very  heartless,  but  she  had  not  always  been  so  \ 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  49 

and  although  her  more  generous  instincts  often 
perished,  like  weak  chickens  from  sheer  inability  to 
break  through  their  shell,  they  did  occasionally 
struggle  into  evidence.  She  liked  Provence,  and 
where  she  liked  she  could — at  a  pinch — be  loyal. 
"  Cynthia  shall  not  make  a  fool  of  him,  if  I  can  help 
it,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  vicious  snap  of  her 
teeth.  "She  is  altogether  too  self-confident.  She 
would  be  much  improved  by  an  occasional  failure. 
She  is  too  used  to  success."  If  the  jealousy,  the 
natural  jealousy  of  a  woman  who  had  outlived  her  own 
days  of  desperate  flirtation,  added  a  zest  to  her  pur- 
pose, the  purpose  itself  was  none  the  less  a  kind  one 
so  far  as  her  intentions  went  and  Provence  was  con- 
cerned. As  a  rule,  there  can  be  no  better  adviser  for 
a  man  than  a  woman  who  has  a  passionless  affection 
for  him :  she  can  under  these  circumstances  almost 
succeed  in  being  impartial  j  she  can  even  see  where 
he  may  be  in  fault  j  she  can  bring  herself  to  face  his 
shortcomings — nay,  more,  she  can  deal  with  them. 
If  Lady  Theodosia  had  been  asked  just  why  she  liked 
Provence,  she  would  not  have  been  able  to  say.  She 
could  not  possibly  tell  people  that  he  reminded  her  of 
her  first  lover — about  the  legs. 

The  morning  after  her  conversation  with  Cynthia 
she  walked  to  the  cottage  where  he  lodged,  for  the 
ostensible  reason  of  inquiring  after  his  landlady's  baby, 
who  was  cutting  teeth.  It  was  a  significant  fact  that 
she  put  on  her  most  becoming  bonnet  and  mantle. 
That  a  ministering  angel  should  of  necessity  be  dowdy 
was  no  part  of  her  creed.  When  she  had  finished 
with  the  landlady  she  strolled  into  the  garden,  where 
she  saw  Provence  reading.  He  was  surprised,  but 


50  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

rather  pleased  than  otherwise,  to  see  her  :  first,  because 
she  was  Cynthia's  aunt ;  secondly,  because  she  was  an 
attractive-looking  woman. 

"  I  have  come  to  have  a  chat  with  you,"  she  began 
— with  a  directness  she  was  capable  of  when  it 
appeared  expedient ;  "  you  won't  think  me  a  bore  ?  " 
She  smiled  at  him  with  her  large  brown  eyes.  "  Let 
us  walk  down  this  path,"  she  continued,  "  we  can  talk 
better."  With  one  hand  she  caught  up  her  silk  skirt: 
she  laid  the  other — covered  in  light  grey  kid — very 
lightly  on  his  arm.  The  movement  was  perfectly 
spontaneous,  and  probably  the  nearest  approach  to  a 
motherly  caress  she  could  think  of.  She  had  never 
felt  so  nearly  sorry  for  any  one  in  her  life  as  she  did 
for  him.  "  He  reminds  me  more  than  ever  of  Talbot ! " 
she  sighed  to  herself. 

"  I  am  coming  straight  to  the  point,"  she  said, 
"because  I  know  you  like  candour.  I  want  to  tell 
you — you  will  forgive  me,  I  know — I  want  to  tell 
you  that  you  are  growing  too  fond  of  my  niece.  Pray 
don't  look  so  distressed.  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  say  it 
— it  is  so  difficult  to  put  these  things — you  know  what 
I  mean.  I  don't  think  you  ever  tricu  10  disguise  your 
admiration  for  her — there  has  been  no  necessity  for 
anything  of  the  kind.  If  I  have  misunderstood  you, 
however,  you  will  tell  me  so." 

Provence,  who  had  at  first  turned  red,  was  now  very 
pale. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  he  said,  proudly  "  I  have 
not  tried  to  disguise  my  feelings — it  may  be  I  could 
not.  But  I  have  not  been  foolish  enough  to  hope  that 
— that  Miss  Heathcote  had  the  smallest  interest  in  me 
— if  that  is  what  you  mean." 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  51 

"  You  are  not  being  sincere  with  yourself,"  said 
Lady  Theodosia.  "  Cynthia  has  given  you  every 
encouragement — you  must  feel  it — whether  you  admit 
it  is  another  matter.  You  are  too  modest — a  sure 
sign  you  are  very  much  in  love.  It  is  just  because 
Cynthia  has  led  you  to  believe  in  every  possible  way 
that  she  cares  for  your  society  quite  as  much  as  you 
care  for  hers,  that  I  am  here  to-day  Don't  contra- 
dict me  and  say  she  hasn't :  I  am  a  woman  of  the 
world  and  know  what  I  am  talking  about  Now 
when  Cynthia  takes  it  into  her  head  to  flirt,  she  is 
absolutely  without  principle  -f  she  forgets  everything 
— except  herself.  Let  me  entreat  you  to  leave  this 
place — you  are  only  making  misery  for  yourself  by 
staying.  She  will  never  love  you :  it  isn't  in  her  to 
love  any  one.  I  am  fond  of  her  ;  I  know  her  fascina- 
tion— she  fascinates  me :  but  she  is  made  of  granite. 
You  may  like  her,  you  may  admire  her  to  your  heart's 
content,  but  you  must  not  love  her." 

"  Lady  Theodosia,"  he  said,  "  I  know  you  mean  to 
be  kind ;  I  know  you  believe  every  word  you  say  : 
but  as  you  have  been  straightforward  with  me  I  will 
be  perfectly  plain  with  you.  I  cannot  think  as  you 
do  with  regard  to — Miss  Heathcote.  She  would  not 
be  granite  to  the  right  man.  That  I  do  not  happen 
to  be  that  man  is  not  at  all  extraordinary.  You 
know,"  he  added,  "  every  man  cannot  be  Mark 
Anthony,  that  a  Cleopatra  should  love  him — it  is 
enough  for  an  ordinary  mortal  that  he  may  have  the 
inestimable  privilege  of  breaking  his  heart  for  a  Cleo- 
patra." 

"  You  are  a  fool,"  said  Lady  Theodosia,  "  and  of 
course  I  like  you  better  for  it.  I  did  not  expect  you 


52  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

to  believe  me  as  a  matter  of  fact,  but  I  have  done 
what  I  honestly  thought  was  my  duty.  I  have  warned 
you,  and  I  can  do  no  more.  As  for  this  nonsense 
about  the  right  man,  don't  make  excuses  for  her  on 
that  ground.  The  right  man  for  her  is  he  who  has 
the  most  money  and  the  biggest  position.  She  was 
born  for  noise,  not  love.  We  won't  return  to  this 
subject  again.  As  I  said  just  now,  I  have  done  what 
I  could,  and  the  rest  lies  with  yourself.  Naturally 
you  will  hate  me  after  this,  but  I  knew  what  I  was 
bringing  upon  myself  when  I  started.  I  will  say 
this,"  she  added,  after  a  pause  :  "  if  Cynthia  should 
prove  different  to  what  I  have  said  (but  she  won't),  I 
should  be  glad  for  her  sake,  because  I  like  you,  and  I 
think — this  is  the  truth — you  are  far  too  good  for  her. 
Good-bye."  Then  she  pressed  his  hand  and  hurried 
away. 

Cynthia  sat  at  home  in  the  meantime,  pondering 
her  aunt's  sayings  in  her  heart.  Until  Lady  Theo- 
dosia  had  spoken,  she  had  lived  her  amusement  with 
Provence  from  day  to  day,  taking  small  thought  for 
the  morrow,  and  having  still  less  for  the  yesterday. 
Now  she  felt  she  ought  to  prepare  in  some  way  for  a 
climax.  It  was  a  revelation  to  her  to  find  that  pre- 
paration was  necessary.  She  usually  left  climaxes  to 
the  hour,  her  mood  and  fate.  But  she  liked  Pro- 
vence j  she  could  not  persuade  herself  that  all  the 
climax  would  be  on  his  side.  This  was  awkward. 
Apart,  however,  from  any  mere  personal  attraction  he 
may  have  had  for  her,  he  had  once  told  her — after  a 
great  deal  of  ingenious  cross-questioning  on  her  part 
— that  the  great  Dobbs — Dobbs  mighty  in  literature, 
in  Fleet  Street,  and  the  New  Criticism — had  offered 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  53 

him  the  editorship  of  "The  Present  Age,"  a  monthly 
organ  devoted  to  the  propaganda  of  piquant  (but  not 
necessarily  original)  theories  of  life.  It  made  a  feature 
of  unsigned  articles,  which  were  commonly  supposed 
to  be  written  by  the  Great  (and  perhaps  Improper)  of 
the  earth. 

A  woman  need  not  be  in  the  market-place  to  show 
her  talent  for  marketing.  Cynthia  saw  at  once  that 
the  editor  of  a  periodical  so  justly  reverenced  as  "  The 
Present  Age "  would  enjoy  a  reputation,  and  some- 
thing in  the  way  of  income  not  totally  unworthy  of  a 
Veiled  Prophet.  Now  if  there  was  one  thing  she 
respectedc  far  above  titles  and  riches,  it  was  success  ; 
if  she  had  one  cherished  ambition,  it  was  to  be  the 
wife  of  a  successful  man,  a  man  who  painted  much 
talked-of  pictures,  or  wrote  conspicuous  books,  or 
preached  to  big  congregations,  or,  in  fact,  was  able  in 
any  way,  either  by  his  ability  or  impudence,  to  push 
himself  into  a  prominent  position.  She  naturally 
preferred  a  genius  to  a  quack,  she  liked  what  is  con- 
sidered the  best  of  everything  j  but  geniuses  were 
rare,  and  although  one  could  never  mistake  a  genius 
for  a  quack,  it  was  quite  possible  to  mistake  a  quack 
for  a  genius.  Provence,  she  feared,  was  a  great  deal 
too  much  in  earnest  to  care  for  applause  just  for  its 
own  sake,  but  she  saw  ho  reason  why,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  an  ambitious  woman,  he  should  not  make  a 
considerable  buzz  about  his  name  with  comparatively 
little  trouble.  Left  to  himself,  he  would  probably 
spend  his  life  trying  to  realize  some  crazy  ideal,  and 
in  the  end  accomplish  nothing.  That  was  always  the 
way  with  a  sort  of  genius,  a  man  whose  mind  was 
pitched  higher  than  his  voice.  u  I  could  make  some- 


54  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

thing  of  him,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  if  I  could  get 
certain  notions  out  of  his  head."  For  he,  in  his  vain- 
glory, had  spoken  lightly  of  "  The  Present  Age  ;  " 
had  laughed  at  the  idea  of  being  its  editor ;  had 
announced  his  intention  of  sticking  to  his  novel — an 
incomprehensible  manuscript  which  Cynthia  could  not 
understand,  and  which  he  did  not  seem  able  to  explain. 

That  evening  she  went  into  the  garden  as  usual, 
and  as  usual  found  Provence  in  the  arbour.  He  always 
came  after  dinner,  at  the  Rector's  kind  invitation,  to 
run  through  a  little  music.  He  looked  very  pale  and 
very  determined.  Cynthia  was  more  than  ever  con- 
vinced that  he  was  quite  the  most  interesting  of  all 
her  lovers — and  she  had  had  a  number. 

"  You  look  like  Prometheus  defying  the  Furies — 
you  remember  in  Shelley  !  "  she  said,  as  she  came  up 
to  him.  "  Are  you  angry — with  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  come  to  say  good-bye — to  you  all,"  he  said 
abruptly  j  "  I  am  going  to  London  to-night." 

"  To-night  ?  "  said  Cynthia,  "  to-night  ?  Have 
you  heard  any  bad  news  ?  How  rude  I  am — but  it  is 
so  sudden."  She  seemed,  and  was  in  reality,  dismayed 
and  disappointed.  Was  this  the  climax  ?  This,  the 
supreme  situation  of  the  third  act  ?  Would  there  be 
no  one  but  that  dull  Edward  Cargill  for  the  remainder 
of  the  summer  ?  No  wonder  her  heart  sank. 

"  It  is  necessary  for  me  to  go,"  said  Provence  ;  "  I 
have  stayed  too  long  already."  Some  feint  inkling 
of  his  meaning  dawned  upon  her,  and  her  spirits 
brightened. 

"It  must  be  very  dull  for  you,"  she  said,  with  a 
melancholy  little  sigh,  "  very,  very  dull."  This  was 
more  than  he  could  bear. 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  55 

"  Oh,  Cynthia,"  he  said,  "  you  know  it  has  not  been 
dull." 

"  Then  why  are  you  going  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Because  I  dare  not  stay." 

She  hesitated,  looked  down,  and  blushed.  She  was 
about  to  take  a  bold  step.  She  really  did  not  want 
him  to  go.  She  moved  nearer  to  him,  so  near  that  a 
lock  of  her  hair,  loosened  by  the  wind,  blew  across  his 
face. 

"  What  shall  I  do  when  you  have  gone  ?  "  she  said. 

He  could  scarcely  trust  himself  to  speak.  "  You 
would  not  care  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  help — caring  ?  " 

"  It  was  so  nice  of  him,"  she  said  to  herself  when 
she  was  going  to  sleep  that  night,  "  not  to  try  and  kiss 
me.  Men  don't  understand,  as  a  rule,  that  a  woman 
likes  to  get  used  to  them  by  degrees.  It  is  rather 
amusing  to  be  engaged,  for  a  change.  He  makes  love 
very  prettily,  and  yet  is  always  a  man." 

It  was  Cynthia's  wish  that  the  engagement  should 
be  kept  secret.  "  It  is  so  uncomfortable  to  have  the 
outside  world  in  one's  confidence,"  she  said.  He 
urged  in  vain  that  her  father  at  least  was  not  the  out- 
side world.  "  The  only  thing  that  can  possibly  concern 
papa,"  she  answered,  "  are  your  prospects.  When  you 
have  settled  everything  with  Dobbs,  it  will  be  time  to 
speak  to  him."  She  did  not  add  that  unless  everything 
was  settled  with  Dobbs,  and  in  her  way,  the  necessity 
for  interviewing  her  father  on  the  subject  of  a  formal 
betrothal  would  never  arise — such  candour  was  far 
removed  from  her  method  of  gaining  a  point.  At 
first  he  told  her  decidedly  that  nothing  on  earth  would 


56  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

induce  him  to  take  up  journalism,  and  the  editor's 
work  for  "  The  Present  Age  "  would  mean  journalism 
in  its  most  aggravated  form.  He  cared  nothing  for 
income  and  hated  notoriety.  Cynthia  liked  him  for 
appearing  a  little  obstinate  :  it  would  add  lustre  to  her 
triumph.  For  she  scented  triumph  in  the  distance  j 
patience,  a  few  more  smiles,  once  or  twice  the  sus- 
picion of  a  tear,  sometimes  the  mere  worldly  wisdom 
of  "  What  shall  we  live  on  ?  ",  the  pressure  of  her 
cheek  against  his  shoulder — "  To  please  me^  Godfrey." 
There  was  never  a  Samson  so  strong  but  he  met  his 
Delilah  :  it  is  only  by  the  mercy  of  God  that  Delilah 
has  occasionally  a  conscience.  Provence  surrendered 
one  evening.  The  next  morning,  however,  he  told 
her  he  had  thought  better  of  it :  he  renounced  Dobbs 
and  all  his  works  for  ever. 

"Very  well,"  said  Cynthia,  quietly.  "When  I 
have  made  a  mistake  I  am  generally  strong  enough  to 
own  it.  I  have  made  a  mistake  in  you.  It  does  not 
console  me  to  remember  that  women  are  usually  mis- 
taken— in  men." 

"  Have  I  ever  tried  to  give  you  a  false  impression  of 
me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  But  I  will  own,  if  you  like,  that 
it  did  not  require  much  trying.  I  was  only  too 
willing  to  be  deceived.  That  is  a  humiliating  con- 
fession— not  that  I  ought  to  mind  humiliation — 
now." 

"  Cynthia  !     What  are  you  saying  ?  " 

"  You  have  disappointed  me.  That  I  feel  the  dis- 
appointment so  much  is  perhaps  amusing — for  you. 
It  is  only  an  additional  bitterness  to  me." 

"Is  this  because  I  have  broken  a  foolish  promise 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  57 

I  made  to  you  last  night — and  before  I  have  suggested 
any  compromise  ? " 

"  I  despise  a  man  who  breaks  his  word  and  makes 
explanations  afterwards." 

"  I  thought  you  were  just." 

"  Do  not  talk  to  me  of  justice  !  Have  I  not  loved 
you  ?  was  I  not,  am  I  not  still,  ambitious  for  you  ? 
And  you  have  failed  me.  If  I  did  not  know  that  you 
had  ability  I  would  say  nothing — I  would  not  have 
cared  for  you  in  the  first  place.  It  is  because  I  see 
you  so  indolent,  so  satisfied  to  grovel  among  the 
nobodies  whose  only  metier  is  to  grovel,  that  I  am 
heartsick.  I  admit  I  like  to  see  brains  in  a  man  or  a 
woman  :  it  may  be  weakness  on  my  part." 

"  Will  you  not  give  me  time  to  prove  what  I  can 
do?" 

"  You  have  been  all  your  life  proving,  and  this  offer 
from  Dobbs  seems  to  be  the  proof.  It  is  the  only 
thing  I  pin  my  faith  to." 

"  That  is  to  say,"  said  Provence,  "  you  believe  in 
me  because  Dobbs  does." 

"  You  may  attribute  any  meanness  to  me  you 
please." 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  close  with  him  ?  " 

"  My  wishes  can  have  no  interest  for  you — now." 

"  You  know  your  wishes  are  everything  to  me." 

"  You  think  more  of  your  unfinished  novel !  And 
— you  would  not  do  it  if  I  did  wish  it." 

«  But  do  you  ?  " 

"Am  I  not  crying  my  eyes  out — because  you 
won't." 

"  Then  you  do  wish  it,  after  all  I  have  said  ?  " 

"  This  is  childish.     Well — yes — I  suppose  I  do." 


58  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

"  You  are  sure  ?  You  do  not  care  how  ashamed  I 
may  be  afterwards  ?  " 

"  That  is  an  absurd  way  of  putting  it.  I  do  not 
consider  you  a. competent  judge  of  your  own  work." 

"That  may  or  may  not  be.  But  would  you  care 
for  me — even  a  little — if  I  did  this  to  please  you  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  care  for  you — a  little." 

"  Cynthia  !     Do  you  mean  that  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  mean  it.  Women  are  weak,  and  after  all 
I  am  only  a  woman.  Why  do  you  try  me  so  and 
make  me  say  things — in  anger  ?  Do  you  think  I 
enjoy  saying  them  ?  " 

"  But — dearest — I  cannot  say  yes  to  Dobbs." 

"Are  you  trying  an  experiment  with  me  to  see 
how  long  my  patience  will  last !  When  it  fails  I 
think  you  will  be  sorry — at  least,  if  you  love  me  as 
you  pretend  to  do." 

"  You  are  using  hard  words." 

*'  Not  too  hard.  Is  it  a  noble  amusement,  to 
torment  a  woman  who  loves  you  ?  " 

"I  would  die  for  you — but  I  cannot  say  yes  to 
Dobbs." 

"  I  thought  only  women  were  obstinate." 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  obstinacy,  but  of  right." 

a  That  implies  I  am  urging  you  to  do  wrong." 

"  No — but  you  do  not  understand." 

"  Then  I  am  a  fool  ?  I  prefer,  on  the  whole,  to  be 
a  knave.  I  must  decline  to  squabble  like  this.  It  is 
not  only  wearying,  but  vulgar.  So  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned the  subject  shall  drop  for  ever.  Say  no  to 
Dobbs,  by  all  means." 

"  Cynthia,  you  will  see  that  I  am  right — some  day.'* 
"Possibly.     When  I  do  see  it  I  will  own  I  was 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  59 

wrong — I  can  promise  no  more;  but  till  then — till 
then — I  will  never  willingly  set  eyes  upon  you 
again." 

"  Is  this  the  end,  Cynthia  ?  " 

"  The  end  ?  Yes.  I  wish  there  had  never  been  a 
beginning.  I  am  sick  of  you,  but  most  of  all  sick  of 
myself." 

"  I  will  go,  then." 

"  It  is  certainly  best  that  you  should.' 

It  seemed  as  though  the  sound  of  her  own  voice 
had  barely  died  away  when  he  was  out  of  sight.  She 
waited  a  few  moments,  not  so  much  in  the  hope  that 
he  would  return,  but  because  she  felt  that  to  stand 
there  alone — determined  if  sorrowful — was  not  only 
the  most  artistic,  but  the  most  picturesque  thing  to 
do. 

He  returned,  however.  It  was  not  so  easy  to  leave 
her — with  some  of  her  tears  on  his  sleeve.  "  It  shall 
be  as  you  say,"  he  said.  He  felt  as  though  he  had 
signed  away  his  soul. 

Cynthia  laughed  with  the  gaiety  of  a  child.  a  You 
goose  ! "  she  said,  "  you  goose !  Why  couldn't  you 
have  given  in  sooner  ? " 

***** 

Cynthia  felt  she  had  done  well :  the  prospect  of 
marrying  a  successful  writer  became  daily  more 
pleasing  to  her.  As  to  the  novelty  of  "being  en- 
gaged," she  had  classed  it  in  her  list  of  tried-and- 
found-wanting  experiments  before  the  end  of  the 
first  fortnight.  She  found  her  lover's  interest  in  all 
that  concerned  her  a  decided  nuisance  :  he  asked  her 
questions  which  were  often  difficult  to  answer :  he 
was  too  anxious  to  take  upon  his  own  shoulders  the 


60  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

burden  of  her  future.  She  had  proposed  to  manage 
him — it  was  far  from  her  intention  that  he  should 
ever  dream  of  managing  her.  He  recommended  her, 
kindly,  but  with  an  air  of  authority,  the  authors  he 
would  like  her  to  read — among  others  Thomas  a 
Kempis ;  he  gave  her  volumes  of  Scarlatti — old 
editions  with  a  figured  bass  and  not  so  much  as  a 
pedal  mark  j  he  borrowed  her  Rhapsodies  Hongroises, 
and  always  forgot  to  return  them :  he  told  her  that 
Nature  was  better  than  Botticelli  (which,  to  be 
honest,  she  thought  herself — but  the  Rectory  culture 
did  not  allow  her  to  say  so)  j  in  fact,  he  showed  that 
he  did  not  consider  her  taste — on  all  points — as 
perfect  as  it  might  be.  When  the  day  arrived  for 
his  departure  for  town,  she  felt  positively  relieved. 
"He  is  charming,  of  course,"  she  confided  to  Lady 
Theodosia,  whom  she  had  told  of  the  engagement 
unknown  to  Provence,  for,  in  spite  of  her  determina- 
tion to  keep  the  matter  secret,  she  had  felt  the  need 
of  a  pair  of  ears  for  her  bursts  of  dissatisfaction.  She 
had  reached  that  ripeness  of  experience  when  silent 
suffering  seems  misdirected  energy.  "Yes,  he  is 
charming,"  she  repeated,  "only — I  hardly  know  how 
to  express  it — when  I  have  been  with  him  a  whole 
afternoon  I  feel  as  though  I  had  been  for  a  picnic  with 
the  Twelve  Apostles  and  Peter  left  early  !  I  always 
thought  that  Peter  was  the  most  interesting." 

The  parting  was  a  very  different  matter  to  Provence. 
He  kissed  her  once — he  was  always  afraid  of  wearying 
her  with  his  kisses — and  fairly  fled  out  of  her  presence, 
not  daring  to  linger  over  his  good-bye.  It  was  one 
of  his  faults,  no  doubt,  to  take  things  too  seriously. 
When  he  was  quite  out  of  sight  and  hearing,  Cynthia 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  61 

rushed  into  the  drawing-room — which  was  empty — 
and  executed  a  wild  but  extremely  graceful  war-dance 
in  front  of  the  long  mirror.  When  she  was  quite 
breathless  she  flung  open  the  piano — even  lifted  the 
top  to  let  out  its  full  volume,  and  with  her  foot  firmly 
planted  on  the  pedal  she  thumped  with  all  her  might 
a  barbarian  valse  by  a  barbarian  and  unpronounceable 
composer.  Lady  Theodosia  ran  into  the  room  with 
her  small  white  hands  held  over  her  ears. 

"  My  dear  Cynthia,  what  discord !  Even  the 
Russian  person  at  the  concert  did  not  make  such 
a  noise." 

"  I  am  so  tired  of  being  cultured,"  said  Cynthia,  as 
she  wound  up  her  performance  with  shrieking  chro- 
matics in  contrary  motion.  "  A  woman  sacrifices  a 
good  deal  when  she  undertakes  to  steer  a  possible 
genius.  I  shall  go  into  the  woods  this  afternoon  with 
that  stupid  Edward  Cargill  and  read  him  Thret  Mm  in 
a  Boat!  n 


V. 

THERE  was   never  a  Rachel  who  had   not  lurking 
possibilities  of   the  Jezebel,  nor  a  Jezebel  who   had 
nothing  of  the  Rachel — in  weak  moments.     Cynthia 
had  no  sooner  gained  her  point  with  Provence,  when 
she  began  to  have  misgivings.     She  was  not  at  all 
sure  that  she  had  been  right.     She  should  have  waited 
a  little  longer  •    she  should  have  remembered  that  if 
genius  has  an  infinite  capacity  for  taking  pains  it  has 
also   the   tendency   to   dream — a   process   which    the 
practical   onlooker   is   apt   to   mistake  for  dawdling. 
At  first  she  reproached  herself  bitterly  for  her  want 
of  judgment :  she  had  been  betrayed  into  vulgarity  : 
she  wondered — the  thought  was  unbearable — if  Pro- 
vence had  a  sorrowful  contempt   for   her   views   on 
art   and    the   artistic  life.     But  she  had   always   her 
boundless  self-appreciation  to  come  to  the  rescue  in 
hours  like  this  :  when  there  was  no  longer  any  doubt 
in  her  mind  that  a  mistake  had  been  made,  it  did  not 
take  long  to  decide  that  Provence  himself  had  been 
entirely  to  blame.     He  ought  to  have  shown   more 
firmness :    he  had  given  up  his  most  cherished  con- 
victions because  of  some  idle  words  she  had  spoken 
in  a  fit  of  caprice.     The  phrase  "  idle  words,"  which 
her  ingenious  conscience  had  given  her  at  less  than 
a  nod,  she  pounced  on  and  worked  up  into  a  whole 
theory  of  justification.     The  case  stood  thus  : — She 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  63 

could  not  in  reason  be  expected  to  marry  a  man 
whose  career  as  yet  was  all  promise  and  no  execution : 
she  was  not  a  servant-maid  nor  a  Rachel,  to  wait  for 
her  lover  while  he  served  his  time  :  she  had,  in  her 
love  for  him  and  in  her  anxiety  to  find  some  practical 
basis  for  their  engagement,  no  doubt  urged  him  to 
take  the  vulgar  and  tangible  in  preference  to  the 
aesthetic  and  visionary  :  her  error  was  that  she  had 
spoken  under  the  pressure  of  the  moment,  without 
due  thought  and  against  her  own  true  instincts  j  he, 
being  the  man  and  the  one  whose  career  was  in 
question,  should  have  stood  his  ground  and  refused  to 
be  influenced.  Then,  how  she  would  have  respected 
him  !  She  was  thinking  all  this  when  the  postbag 
arrived  and  in  it  a  letter  from  Provence.  This  was 
the  letter : — 

"  I  cannot  keep  the  promise  I  made  you.  I  cannot 
say  yes  to  Dobbs — I  would  rather  slice  ham  in  a  cook- 
shop.  Dearest,  dearest,  do  understand  this  and  give 
me  a  little  time. — G.  P  " 

She  read  this,  trembled  with  anger,  and  was  perhaps 
more  truly  in  love  with  him  than  she  had  ever  been  in 
her  life.  Unfortunately,  however,  she  did  not  know 
this,  but  rushed  to  Lady  Theodosia,  who  was  sitting 
alone  in  the  drawing-room  knitting  charity  comforters 
for  the  poor. 

"  That  is  the  way  he  treats  me,"  she  said,  giving 
her  aunt  the  letter.  "  I  am  tired  of  him.  What 
does  he  want  me  to  do  ?  Men  are  so  selfish.  I  was 
a  fool  to  listen  to  him  in  the  beginning." 

Geniuses  are  never  practical,"  said  Lady  Theodosia. 

"  The  fact  of  the  matter  is  this,"  said  Cynthia,  "  the 
artistic  temperament  ought  not  to  marry  " 


64  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

Lady  Theodosia  looked  her  perfect  agreement,  but 
said  nothing. 

Cynthia  began  to  march  up  and  down  the  room. 
"  The  whole  thing  has  been  a  mistake,"  she  said  ;  "  I 
must  put  an  end  to  it.  I  was  not  destined  for  a  villa 
and  a  dinner  of  herbs." 

"  Some  herbs  are  so  richly  gravied  they  might  very 
well  pass  for  ox,"  said  her  aunt.  "  If  an  author  does 
get  on,  he  gets  on  very  well  indeed." 

"But  how  if  he  doesn't  ?  "  said  Cynthia. 

"  That's  the  point,"  said  Lady  Theodosia  j  "  do  you 
feel  like  taking  the  risk  ?  " 

Cynthia  looked  out  of  the  window.  It  was  a 
singularly  clear,  bright  day  ;  in  the  distance  she  could 
see  the  clock-tower  of  Northwold  Hall. 

"  No,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  I  do  not  feel  like  taking 
the  risk." 

Lady  Theodosia  gave  two  short  sighs — one  for 
Godfrey,  one  for  human  nature — and  then  smiled  at 
her  niece. 

"  A  wise  decision,"  she  said. 

"Although  I  have  been  a  fool,"  said  Cynthia, 
"thank  goodness  I  have  not  had  the  folly  to  parade 
about  the  country  with  my  fiance  tacked  on  to  my 
skirts.  As  it  is,  nobody  knows  anything  about  it." 

"  I  hope  he  will  not  do  anything  absurd  when  you 
tell  him,"  said  Lady  Theodosia. 

"  I  shall  write  it,"  said  Cynthia. 

"  Writing  is  dangerous,"  said  her  aunt. 

"  Not  anything  that  I  write,"  said  Cynthia. 

And  then — was  it  fate  or  accident  ? — the  door 
opened  and  Edward  Cargill  was  announced. 

"  That    is    the    man    for  Cynthia,"  thought   Lady 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  65 

Theodosia  at  once ;  "  he  would  be  very  kind  to  her 
and  keep  her  in  comfort." 

"  How  awfully  jolly  to  find  you  in  ! "  exclaimed 
that  amiable  gentleman.  "  Mother  sent  a  lot  of 
messages,  but  I  forget  every  one  of  them.  I  hope  you 
don't  mind,"  and  he  settled  down  in  a  chair  with  the 
comfortable  air  of  a  man  who  has  determined  to  be 
happy  for,  at  least,  an  hour. 

"  We  won't  mind  if  you  can  tell  us  something  more 
exciting  than  the  messages,"  said  Cynthia. 

"  You  are  sarcastic,"  said  Edward ;  "  it's  tre- 
mendously hard  on  a  fellow  to  expect  him  to  be 
interesting  when  he  comes  from  a  dull  place  like  ours. 
I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  houses  are  always  the 
liveliest  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  when  the  woman 
isn't  one  of  these  awfully  good  housekeepers.  Mother 
is  such  a  splendid  manager,"  he  added. 

"  That  is  a  very  happy  remark,"  said  Lady  Theo- 
dosia, "  and  just  reminds  me  that  I  am  due  at  a 
committee-meeting  in  half  an  hour.  Perhaps  I  shall 
find  you  here  when  I  come  back.  I  sha'n't  be  long." 

"  Thanks  awfully,"  said  Edward,  "  perhaps  you  will 
— if  Miss  Heathcote  can  stand  me." 

"  He  is  really  a  very  ingenuous,  simple-hearted 
creature,"  thought  Lady  Theodosia  as  she  hurried 
down  the  corridor.  "  He  would  be  so  grateful  to 
Cynthia  for  marrying  him." 

When  the  door  closed  on  Lady  Theodosia,  Edward 
leant  forward  in  his  chair  and  began  to  flick 
imaginary  specks  of  dust  off  his  boots  with  his 
riding-whip.  Cynthia  understood  the  movement  well 
— it  was  a  habit  of  Edward's  when  he  was  labouring 
under  mental  excitement.  Among  her  stronger 

6 


66  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

qualities,  resignation  to  the  inevitable  was  perhaps 
the  foremost.  "  He  is  now  going  to  make  a  bigger 
fool  of  himself  than  usual,"  she  thought. 

"I  like  Lady  Theodosia  very  much,"  he  began, 
"  but  I'm  not  sorry  she's  gone." 

"That's  very  rude." 

"No,  it  isn't — at  least,  it  isn't  rude  to  tell  you. 
It  alway?  seems  so  natural  to  tell  you  everything  I 
think." 

"You  regard  me  as  a  kind  of  indulgent  grand- 
mother, in  fact." 

"  Cynthia,  how  can  you  ?  " 

"  Don't  look  so  tragic  ;  it  doesn't  suit  you." 

"I  don't  believe  you  ever  cared  about  any  one  in 
your  life  ;  I  don't  believe  you  could." 

"  I  never  tried.     How  should  I  set  to  work  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  ought  to  let  yourself  go  more — you 
must  let  yourself  go  if  you  want  to  fall  in  love.  As  it 
is  now,  I  am  sure  you  could  argue  yourself  out  of 
anything." 

"  Mustn't  one  argue  if  one  is  in  love  ?  " 

"  No  j  it's  ever  so  much  nicer  to  keep  quiet  and 
just  go  on  loving." 

"  I  call  that  very  weak,"  said  Cynthia.  "  I  don't 
believe  in  falling  in  love,  as  you  call  it,  to  begin  with  ; 
but  if  I  felt  that  there  was  any — person — for  whom  I 
felt  more — respect — than  others,  I  should  have  to 
satisfy  myself  that  the — person — could  bear  criticism 

"But  if  you  love  any  one,"  said  Edward,  eagerly, 
"  you  don't  want  to  criticise  them.  Don't  you 
remember  in  £  Fifine  at  the  Fair '  the  husband  tells  his 
wife  to  see  herselr  in  his  soul,  and  not  bother  so  much 
about  her  actual  personal  appearance  ?  and  of  course 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  67 

the  same  would  apply  to  a  character.  Browning 
doesn't  express  it  quite  that  way,"  he  added,  "but 
that  is  what  it  comes  to.  I  got  a  fellow  to  explain 
it  to  me." 

"  I  should  have  hated  that  husband,"  said  Cynthia. 
"  How  I  should  respect  a  man  who  had  the  strength 
of  character  to  say,  c  Cynthia,  if  there  is  anything  in 
your  style,  I  don't  admire  it.  You  are  too  tall,  and  I 

don't  like  the  colour  of  your  hair.  However '  and 

so  on.  That  would  be  treating  me  like  a  rational 
being." 

"  My  experience  of  women  is "  said  Edward  ; 

and  then  he  blushed.  "  I  mean,"  he  said,  "  all  women 
like  to  be  appreciated.  Anyhow,"  he  added,  desper- 
ately, "  if  a  woman  is  awfully  beautiful,  I  don't  see 
any  harm  in  telling  her  so." 

"  If  she  is — awfully  beautiful — perhaps  not.  You 
see,  she  would  probably  know  it." 

"I  don't  believe  you  know  how  beautiful  you 
are." 

"  How  you  take  one's  breath  away  !  I  know  I  am 
— not  exactly  repulsive." 

"  You  are  lovely." 

"  These  compliments  are  very  noisy,  and — and  you 
have  no  right  to  say  them." 

"  No  right !  When  you  know  I  love  the  very 
ground  under  your  feet." 

"  Well  !  I  don't  know  anything  of  the  kind,  and — 
I  wish  you  wouldn't." 

"  I  can't  help  it." 

"  I  should  think  you  would  have  more  self-respect.' 

"  Damn  my  self-respect." 

"  Do  vou  mistake  me  for  vour  brown  mare  ?  w 


68  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

u  I  beg  your  pardon — but  I  will  damn  anything  or 
anybody  that  comes  between  us." 

"  How  dare  you  talk  of  things  coming  between  us  ? 
I  don't  understand  you.  You  are  nothing  to  me  what- 
ever. And  as  for  this  display  of  temper,  I  should  say 
you  had  no  self-respect  to  damn.  You  see  I  don't 
mince  words  when  I  speak  my  mind." 

"  Why  should  you — to  me  ?  You  can  pitch 
things  at  me,  if  you  like." 

"  This  conversation  does  not  promise  to  end  satis- 
factorily to  either  of  us." 

"  Cynthia,  will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

"  Can  you  presume  to  ask  such  a  question — now  ?  " 

"When  a  man's  in  earnest  he  doesn't  think  of 
opportunities  and  occasions.  I  must  know  to-day 
whether  I  am  to  blow  my  brains  out  or  not." 

"  Don't  do  anything  rash,  but  ride  home  and  devour 
an  immense  dinner  first.  I  hope,  too,  you  will  sleep 
well  after  it.  How  can  you  make  yourself  so  ridi- 
culous ?  " 

"You  will  see  that  I  am  in  earnest — too  late. 
Cynthia,  once  more — will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  marry  you  nor  any  other  man." 

"  I  shall  shoot  myself." 

a  If  you  particularly  wish,  I  won't  stand  in  your 
way." 

"  Have  you  no  heart  ?  Are  you  made  of  stone  ? 
You  know  I  have  loved  you  for  years — all  my  life — 
from  the  first  time  I  saw  you.  I  remember  how  you 
looked  quite  well.  Your  nurse  was  curling  your  hair 
round  a  stick,  and  you  were  keeping  as  quiet  as  a 
mouse.  You  weie  five  and  a  half.  And  you  can 
ell  me  I  am  nothing  to  you  !  " 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  69 

"She  never  curled  my  hair  j  it  always  curled 
naturally  !  As  for  saying  you  are  nothing  to  me, 
I  was  angry — then.  I  don't  dislike  you — in  your 
proper  place." 

"  Then  will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

« I  will  see." 

"  Oh,  Cynthia  !  " 

"  Don't  touch  me,  please.  We  are  not  Hodge  and 
Betsy.  And  let  me  warn  you,  if  you  want  to  make 
me  angry — so  angry  that  I  will  never  speak  to  you 
again — try  to  kiss  me,  or  something  unpleasant  of  that 
sort." 

"  You  would  soon  get  accustomed  to  it.  After  all, 
it's  the  most  usual  and  natural  thing  to  do — when 
one's  engaged." 

"  Then  engage  yourself  to  some  one  who  is  usual 
and  natural,  for  I  am  neither." 

"  May  I  tell  them  we  are  engaged  ? " 

"  Tell  them  we  are  engaged  !  What  are  you 
talking  about  ?  " 

"  You  have  promised  to  marry  me,  and  I  shall  run 
up  to  town  and  buy  you  a  diamond  and  sapphire  ring. 
Do  you  like  sapphires  ?  " 

"  They're  not  bad — when  they're  a  good  colour." 

"They  shall  be  the  finest." 

"  I  prefer  one — very  nice  one — set  in  diamonds. 
And,  Edward,  I  want  more  than  anything — if  you 
want  to  be  charming — a  diamond  pin  for  my  hair.' 

"  If  I  may  kiss  your  little  finger,  you  shall  have 
two." 

"  Do  you  think  I  can  be  bribed  by  diamonds  ? 
Besides,  two  pins  would  look  vulgar  j  I  only  want 
one." 


/o  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

**  You  have  made  me  so  happy ! "  and  then,  as  he 
stood  by  her,  he  ventured  to  touch  a  loose  piece  of 
hair  which  had  strayed  on  her  forehead. 

For  some  reason  the  movement  reminded  her  of 
Provence.  In  an  instant  she  sprang  to  her  feet. 
"  How  dare  you  ? "  she  said.  "  I  told  you  not  to 
touch  me.  That  is  what  people  call  caressing.  I 
hate  it." 

"  I  will  never  do  it  again.** 

Then,  to  his  dismay,  she  burst  into  tears.  He  had 
never  seen  her  in  tears  before. 

"  I  won't  have  the  diamonds,"  she  said,  passionately. 
"  Why  did  you  talk  about  them  ?  I  ought  to  wear 
sackcloth  and  ashes  for  the  rest  of  my  life." 

u  Dear  Cynthia,  I  did  not  mean  to  make  you  angry. 
Forgive  me." 

**  Will  you  leave  me,  then,  for  to-day  ?  I  want  to 
think.  My  head  aches  j  I  am  not  myself."  She 
looked  at  him  for  once — appealingly. 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  me  ?  You  have  forgiven 
me?n 

**  Yes — only  go.  If  I  seem  disagreeable,  I  am 
sorry.**  It  is  not  so  hard  as  one  might  think  to  be 
magnanimous  to  a  beautiful  woman.  Edward  rode 
home  in  high  spirits. 

When  he  had  gone,  Cynthia  went  to  her  own  room 
and  wrote  a  letter  to  Provence : 

"DEAR  MR.  PROVENCE, 

"From  your  note  to-day  I  fear  you  have 
misconstrued  some  remarks  of  mine.  It  would  be 
painful  to  me  to  point  out  where  the  mistake  has 
arisen.  Should  I  have  said  painful  to  both  of  us? 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  71 

In  the  circumstances,  however,  I  feel  I  ought  to  tell 
you  that  Mr.  Cargill  has  asked  me  to  be  his  wife  and 
I  have  accepted  him.  The  engagement  is  not  yet 
publicly  announced,  and  will  not  be  until  we  have 
fixed  a  date  for  the  wedding. 
"Believe  me, 

"  Yours  very  truly, 
"CYNTHIA  CREIGHTON  HEATHCOTE." 

She  posted  this  herself,  to  make  sure  that  it  went 
that  evening.  It  had  no  sooner  left  her  hands  than 
she  wished  it  back. 

The  path  of  wisdom  is  almost  as  thorny  as  the  path 
of  grace — even  though  it  may  lead  to  diamonds,  and 
those  the  finest  in  Bond  Street. 


VL 

THREE  months  later,  Cynthia  returned  to  London 
from  her  honeymoon.  Lady  Theodosia  thought  that 
she  looked  handsomer  than  ever  j  as  a  work  of  art  she 
seemed  more  finished.  Parisian  dressmakers  are  cer- 
tainly clever  j  and  what  picture  does  not  look  better 
for  a  tasteful  frame  ?  Her  expression,  however,  was 
scarcely  contented. 

"  Are  you  disappointed  in  Edward  ?  "  Lady  Theo- 
dosia ventured  to  say  one  day,  when  Cynthia  seemed 
in  a  talking  mood. 

"  How  could  I  be  disappointed  in  him  ?  "  said 
the  bride  j  "  is  he  a  man  who  leads  one  to  expect 
much  ? " 

a  Is  he  kind  ?  "  said  Lady  Theodosia. 

Cynthia  smiled.     "  He  is  manageable.'* 

"  Well,"  said  her  aunt,  "  that  is  something.  I 
hope  he  is  generous." 

"  There  is  Scotch  blood  in  the  family,  you  know," 
said  Cynthia. 

u  Still,  you  don't  regret  the  marriage  ?  "  said  Lady 
Theodosia  j  "  you  don't  think  you  could  have  done 
better?" 

"  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  regret  anything,"  said 
Cynthia;  "regret  is  a  bore.  I  prefer  to  call  my 
mistakes  experience." 

"  I  don't  think  you  would  have  been  happier  with 
— a  poor  man,"  said  her  aunt,  after  a  pause, 

7* 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  73 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Cynthia.  "  I  could  never  feel 
that  love  is  sufficient.  Some  people  regard  love  as  a 
civilized  instinct  j  others  as  a  side-dish.  With  me  it 
is  a  side-dish." 

"  Those  who  regard  it  as  a  side-dish  are  less  likely 
to  get  into  trouble,"  said  Lady  Theodosia. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Cynthia,  "  because 
— I  don't  mind  telling  you  now,  since  it  is  all  over — 
I  certainly  was  very  much  in  love,  in  my  way,  with 
Godfrey  Provence.  Even  at  the  last  minute  I  would 
have  broken  off  with  Edward  and  married  him,  if  he 
had  seemed  to  care  much  about  my  letter,  that  time. 
I  really  wrote  it  in  a  temper — he  might  have  read 
between  the  lines.  It  only  proves  how  things  work 
for  the  best.  I  know  now  that  he  didn't  care  for  me 
in  the  least.  I  have  not  heard  from  him  since — not  a 
word,  not  a  line." 

"Perhaps  he  has  been  ill,"  suggested  Lady  Theodosia. 

"  111 !  "  said  Cynthia.  "  His  novel  was  published 
yesterday.  I  read  the  announcement  in  The  Times. 
That  does  not  sound  like  illness.  No,  he  subordinates 
everything  to  his  writing.  He  liked  me  well  enough 
till  I  seemed  to  interfere  with  that.  If  I  had  had  red 
hair  and  a  bad  complexion,  he  would  have  hated  the 
sight  of  me.  But  then,"  she  went  on,  relapsing  into 
her  former  voice  of  indifference,  "  what  does  it  matter 
one  way  or  the  other  ?  Of  course,  I  gave  myself  a 
great  deal  of  unnecessary  unhappiness  at  the  time.  I 
started  on  my  wedding  tour  the  most  miserable  woman 
in  the  world.  I  prayed  that  the  boat  might  sink 
which  took  us  to  Calais.  I  should  probably  have 
died  of  fright  if  it  had.  I  am  merely  telling  you  all 
this  to  prove  to  you  how  silly  a  girl  can  be  if  she 


74  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

attaches  too  much  importance  to  sentiment.  It  is 
far  easier  to  be  Juliet  than  Cressida.  You  may  de- 
pend that  Cressida  had  a  great  deal  of  self-control." 

"  I  think  it  is  only  fair  to  Godfrey  Provence  to  say 
this — you  are  certainly  difficult  to  understand.  Men 
divide  women  into  so  many  types,  and  when  they  see 
a  woman  they  put  her  down  as  a  representative  of  one 
of  these.  They  like  to  think  that  if  she  is  type  a  she 
will  do  this,  if  type  b  that,  if  type  c  the  other,  and  so 
on.  It  is  very  absurd,  of  course,  for  no  two  women 
are  the  same  any  more  than  one  wave  is  like  another." 

"If  he  had  loved  me  he  would  have  understood 
me,"  said  Cynthia.  "  At  any  rate  he  would  not  have 
given  me  up  so  easily." 

Lady  Theodosia  shook  her  head.  "  I  don't  pretend 
to  explain  either  of  you,"  she  said.  "You  may  know  a 
tree  by  its  fruit,  but  certainly  not  men  and  women  by 
their  actions." 

"  It  has  all  ended  now,"  said  Cynthia,  "  and  well 
enough  for  both  of  us.  You  can't  say  that  of  all 
endings." 

"Well  enough,  yes — if  it  is  the  end."  At  that 
moment  they  heard  Edward's  voice  in  the  hall.  "  I 
don't  think  that  bonnet-strings  suit  every  face,"  Lady 
Theodosia  was  saying  as  he  came  into  the  room. 

"  Still  talking  about  dress  ?  "  he  said.  "  I've  got  a 
bit  of  news  for  you  which  will  keep  you  going  very 
comfortably  till  dinner.  Provence  is  married." 

Neither  of  the  women  stirred ;  nor  did  they  look 
at  each  other.  Cynthia,  perhaps,  smiled  a  little. 
Edward  felt  that  his  news  had  fallen  flat. 

"  He's  married  his  cousin,"  he  went  on,  "  a  Miss 
Hemingway,  daughter  of  that  Lady  Hemingway  who 


Some   "Emotions  and  a  Moral.  75 

goes  in  for  bazaars.  The  girl  is  plain,  and  not  much 
in  her.  These  literary  cusses  have  awfully  queer 
tastes.  They  don't  know  what  love  is,  poor  devils  !  " 

"  Who  told  you  about  it  ?  "  said  Cynthia. 

"  I  heard  it  at  the  club,"  said  her  husband,  "  from  a 
fellow  who  knows  the  bride.  They  say,  too,  his  book 
is  going  to  make  a  hit." 

"  When  was  he  married  ?  "  said  Lady  Theodosia. 

"  This  morning,"  said  Edward.  "  I  suppose  it  will 
be  in  the  papers  to-morrow.  I  used  to  think  he  was 
sweet  on  Agatha,  always  hanging  about  the  Rectory 
as  he  did  last  summer." 

If  a  new  light  suddenly  dawned  upon  him  he  was 
discreet  enough  not  to  reveal  the  fact,  but  with  a 
benedictory  smile,  as  became  a  husband  and  the  head 
of  the  house,  he  went  out. 

Cynthia  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  I'm  glad  the 
Calais  boat  didn't  sink,"  she  said  j  "  but  even  if  it 
had,  I  can't  help  thinking  that  I  should  have  had  the 
best  of  it."  Her  lips  curved  and  a  dimple  came  into 
her  cheek,  but  there  was  no  smile  in  her  eyes. 

"I  dare  say  this  Miss  Hemingway  is  very  well 
suited  to  him,"  said  Lady  Theodosia. 

**  I  know  all  about  her,"  said  Cynthia.  "  He  once 
stopped  at  a  country  house  with  her.  He  told  me  she 
was  a  very  good  walker  and  ate  an  astonishingly  large 
breakfast." 

"  I  have  certainly  heard  more  impassioned  descrip- 
tions," said  Lady  Theodosia. 

"  Nevertheless,  he  has  married  her,"  said  Cynthia. 

"Yes,  he  has  married  her,"  said  Lady  Theodosia, 
"  and  you  have  married  Edward  j  but  I  don't  think 
that  proves  anything." 


j6  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Cynthia;  "a  marriage  rarely 
does  prove  anything.  The  third  person  who  could 
explain  is  always  silent."  Then  she  said  nothing  for 
some  minutes.  When  she  spoke  her  face  lit  up  with 
unfeigned  gladness.  "  This  Miss  Hemingway  has 
straw-coloured  hair — and  he  detests  blondes." 

Then  they  both  went  to  dress  for  dinner. 

In  reply  to  a  letter  from  his  friend  the  Hon.  and 
Rev.  Percival  Heathcote,  inquiring,  among  other 
things,  about  that  eccentric  man,  Godfrey  Provence, 
the  great  Dobbs  wrote  as  follows : — 

"  I  will  not  say  definitely  that  I  am  disappointed  in 
him.  His  book  is  extremely  clever,  and  I  have  heard 
of  people  reading  it  twice.  That  sounds  well,  but  of 
course  it  may  not  mean  money.  At  present  I  should 
call  it  an  artistic  rather  than  a  financial  success.  Still, 
one  can  only  hope  for  the  best.  He  takes  the  whole 
thing  very  queerly — says  that  the  book  may  be  very 
poor  stuff,  but  it  is  at  all  events  the  best  he  can  do. 
That  seems  to  please  him  more  than  all  the  rest — to 
think  it  is  his  best.  He  is  most  extraordinary — pig- 
headed as  a  mule  !  (Rather  mixed  that.)  And,  Lord 
save  us  !  why  did  he  marry  ?  Have  you  seen  her  ? 
Talk  about  c  pious  orgies  ! '  She  is  plain,  is  timid,  and 
adores :  figurez-vous.  My  wife  tells  me  she  has  already 
started  a  tea-gown.  Provence  seems  rather  em- 
barrassed, and  is,  I  should  say,  quietly  happy — with 
reservations.  What  did  he  see  in  her  ?  However, 
the  soul's  the  stature  of  the  man — not  his  wife.  He 
may  be  a  giant,  m  spite  of  her." 


Part  II. 


IT  was  generally  admitted  in  the  Family — and  perhaps 
outside  it — that  if  any  one  wanted  to  discuss  the 
Family,  or  hear  news  of  the  Family,  or  give  advice 
to  the  Family,  or  make  laws  for  the  Family,  it  was  all 
to  be  done  at  Mrs.  Golightly's  over  the  tea.  .  And  the 
Family — as  the  Golightlys  understood  the  term — was 
a  large,  unlimited  body,  not  subject  to  arbitrary  laws 
and  conditions :  any  one  might  belong  to  it,  provided 
only  that  the  any  one  was  in  some  way  or  other, 
whether  by  accident  or  necessity  or  marriage  or  any 
other  mysterious  cause,  on  speaking  terms  with  the 
immediate  representatives  or  distant  connexions  of 
the  Golightly  stock. 

On  one  particular  afternoon,  therefore — a  warm, 
bright  afternoon  in  May — a  small  party  was  assembled 
in  Mrs.  Golightly's  drawing-room.  The  party  con- 
sisted of  that  lady  herself,  her  husband,  her  step-son, 
Lady  Hemingway,  and  Mrs.  Godfrey  Provence. 

"  Fancy  !  "  said  Lady  Hemingway,  "  Grace  has 
been  married  three  years  to-day." 

"  And  where  is  Godfrey  ?  "  said  George  Golightly. 

Grace  started  a  sigh,  but  checked  it  and  smiled 
instead.  The  smile  was  both  touching  and  interest- 
ing :  touching  because  forced,  interesting  because  it 
implied  an  arriere  pensee.  At  least  this  was  George's 

77 


78  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

analysis  of  it.  The  rest  were  less  observant,  or  rather 
more  indifferent  as  to  the  subtle  lights  and  shades  of 
Grace's  not  too-varying  expression. 

"  Godfrey  is  at  the  Museum,"  she  said  j  "  he  will 
be  there  all  day." 

In  appearance  and  manner  she  had  certainly  im- 
proved since  her  marriage.  Her  face — formerly  too 
red  and  round — was  thinner  and  merely  pink :  she 
had  perfect  self-possession  :  she  talked  better :  she  had 
lived  with  Godfrey  long  enough  to  catch  his  way  of 
looking  at  things — that  is  to  say,  she  had  caught  it  as 
a  trick — she  knew  the  view  he  would  be  likely  to  take 
of  anything ;  as  for  his  way  of  getting  it,  of  that  she 
knew  nothing.  She  avoided  the  labyrinth.  So  people 
called  her  original — not  knowing  her  husband.  But 
the  really  curious  thing  was  this  :  her  husband  thought 
her  original  too,  and  often  admired  her  wit.  Un- 
conscious victim  of  egoism  !  It  was  his  own. 

"I  think,"  went  on  Grace,  "he  quite  forgot  it  was 
the  anniversary  of  our  wedding-day  :  so  like  him,  you 
know,  and  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  remind  him." 

"  Good  gracious  !  "  said  her  mother,  "  don't  be 
sentimental !  You  can't  expect  a  man  who  works 
with  his  head  to  remember  every  little  household 
matter." 

"I  don't  expect  it,"  said  Grace;  "you  misunder- 
stand me.  I  didn't  remind  him  because  he  looked  so 
happy,  for  him,  when  he  started  for  the  Museum.  If 
I  had  said  anything,  he  might  have  thought  that  he 
ought  to  stay  at  home,  or  take  me  to  a  concert  or 
something  of  the  sort,  like  an  ordinary  husband. 
Next  week  I  dare  say  he  will  remember  and  be  awfully 
grieved  about  it.  He  will  think  he  has  neglected  a 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  7  9 

duty,  and  then — well,  whenever  he  feels  that,  I  believe 
if  I  asked  for  the  moon  he  would  try  to  get  it." 

"  You  are  lucky  to  have  married  such  a  man,"  said 
Lady  Hemingway  ;  "  he's  a  most  willing  creature  !  " 

"But  she  never  asks  for  the  moon,"  remarked 
George. 

Grace  said  nothing.  When  she  asked  for  anything, 
it  was  always  within  arm-reach  after  a  certain  amount 
of  straining. 

"By  the  bye,"  said  Lady  Hemingway,  suddenly, 
"  did  you  see  in  the  paper  yesterday  morning  that  Sir 
Edward  Cargill  is  dead.  Typhoid  fever.  Such  a 
pity  !  And  he  only  came  into  the  title  a  month 
ago."  _ 

"  Nice  young  fellow — inclined  to  be  stout — twelve 
thousand  a  year,  at  least,"  said  the  Captain,  rapidly. 
"Belonged  to  my  club — rarely  dined  there — dined 
deuced  well  when  he  did.  Knew  him  quite  well — 
very  civil.  Quite  cut  up  to  hear  of  his  death.  Only 
seven-and-twenty.  Shocking ! " 

"I  just  mentioned  him,"  said  Lady  Hemingway, 
"  because  I  thought  that  Godfrey  was  friendly  with 
the  Cargills  at  one  time.  Didn't  he  visit  them  in  the 
country — or  something  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Harriet ;  "  he  knew  the  Heathcotes 
very  well,  and  one  of  them  married  the  poor  man  who 
is  just  dead.  That's  all." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Lady  Hemingway,  "  is  that  it  ?  "  She 
waited,  and  then — "  The  Cargill  woman  is  very  good- 
looking." 

"  So  I've  heard,"  said  Harriet. 

"Men  over  thirty  rave  about  her,"  said  Lady 
Hemingway.  "  Did  Godfrey  ever  rave  ?  " 


8o  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

Grace  began  to  bristle  at  once.  "Godfrey  never 
raves  about  any  one,"  she  said,  "but  if  he  admires 
either  of  the  Heathcote  girls,  it  is  Agatha,  the  eldest. 
He  always  says  that  she  has  the  most  regular  features. 
I  don't  suppose  he  ever  saw  much  of  the  other,  for  she 
must  have  been  practically  engaged  to  young  Cargill 
the  summer  Godfrey  was  at  Little  Speenham." 

"I  see,"  said  Lady  Hemingway.  She  could  not 
resist  adding,  however,  "  Clergymen's  daughters  are 
always  so  sly.  You  never  know  what  they're  up  to. 
They  usually  catch  the  richest  men  in  the  parish." 

"  And  play  the  devil  with  the  others,"  added  the 
good  Captain. 

"  Precisely,"  said  his  sister 

"  How  dreadful !  "  murmured  Harriet.  Then  she 
turned  to  Grace,  who  for  some  reason  looked  a  little 
sulky.  "  How  is  little  Elizabeth  ?  "  she  said  ;  "  does 
she  seem  fond  of  her  father  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Grace.  "  Of  course  she  is  only 
two — a  baby  really — but  they  get  on  very  well." 

"  Does  he  want  her  to  be  extraordinary,"  said 
Captain  Golightly — "  learn  metaphysics,  and  all  that  ? 
Ugh  ! "  He  had  an  idea  that  metaphysic  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  medicine. 

"  No,"  said  Grace,  "  he  only  wants  her  to  be 
healthy.  Health  with  him  means  a  whole  system 
of  philosophy." 

"  Poor  little  beggar  !  "  groaned  the  Captain  ;  "  and 
won't  you  have  a  doctor's  bill — that's  all." 

"  Clever  men  never  have  their  children  properly 
educated,"  said  Lady  Hemingway.  "  Grace  will  have 
to  see  that  the  child  is  brought  up  in  a  lady-like 
manner.  Not  that  the  bringing-up  will  matter  much 


Some   'Emotions  and  a  Moral.  81 

one  way  or  the  other — since  she's  a  girl.  If  her  looks 
are  all  right,  one  needn't  worry  about  anything  else — 
except  to  see  that  her  clothes  suit  her.  But  there's 
plenty  of  time  for  that.  You  can't  do  much  with  her 
till  she's  out.  Of  course,  take  care  of  her  complexion 
and  keep  her  back  straight.  That's  quite  enough  to 
keep  any  mother  occupied." 

"  If  I  were  only  stronger  ! "  said  Grace.  She 
was  always  a  little  uneasy  when  interest  in  herself 
threatened  to  spread  to  her  child.  She  had,  perhaps, 
the  irritating  half-suspicion  that  the  child  repaid 
interest  better — might  eventually  end  even  in  getting 
it  all.  She  had  seen  this  very  nearly  happen  in  the 
case  of  her  husband.  She  was  fond  of  little  Elizabeth, 
too ;  she  wanted  her  to  be  noticed  :  to  have  had  a 
plain,  stupid  little  girl  whom  nobody  cared  about — 
that  would  have  been  a  thorn  in  the  flesh,  and  a 
weariness;  and  yet — and  yet — well,  it  was  hard  to 
get  reflected  glory  from  one's  own  child.  The  whole 
principle  was  wrong. 

"  If  I  were  only  stronger  ! "  she  repeated.  George 
looked  at  her,  and  wondered  why  he  had  never 
remarked — before  her  marriage — the  clear  grey  of 
her  eyes,  her  well-proportioned  form,  and  her  restless, 
nervous  mouth.  Then  he  remembered  how,  for  a 
long  time,  he  had  been  gradually  changing  his  opinion 
with  regard  to  Grace — changing  it  so  much,  and  so 
gradually,  that  to-day,  when  he  found  himself  admiring 
her  eyes  and  her  figure,  she  seemed  to  possess  all  the 
novelty  of  a  new  acquaintance  combined  with  the 
tried  charm  of  the  old.  There  is  nothing  more 
fascinating  to  a  child  than  an  old  doll  with  a  new 
head.  The  doll,  in  course  of  time,  swells  the  dust- 


82  Some  Emotions  and  a  Morai. 

heap,  but  the  sentiment  is  everlasting.  It  is  like  the 
worm  which  never  dies.  It  overwhelmed  George 
now.  He  looked  at  Grace  again,  and  something  in 
her  air — a  resigned,  gentle  melancholy — made  him 
fear  she  was  not  happy.  He  felt  sorry  for  her,  and 
angry  with  Godfrey.  "  He  doesn't  understand  her," 
he  thought.  "  He  means  well,  but  he  is  too  much 
wrapt  up  in  his  work.  She  wants  sympathy  and 
tenderness,  and  he  takes  her  to  a  concert.  What  a 
stick  ! "  The  more  he  pondered  it,  the  sadder  he 
grew.  "  She  is  pining  away  under  his  neglect,"  he 
thought. 

"  You  wish  you  were  stronger ! "  said  Lady 
Hemingway  j  "  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  I 
wish  I  had  a  quarter  of  your  health.  Dr.  Ives  told 
me,  the  other  day,  he  considered  you  quite  the  most 
robust  woman  he  knows." 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  Grace,  "  I'm  only  too  glad  to  hear 
it,  I'm  sure — only  doctors  don't  know  everything." 
Soon  after  that  she  kissed  her  mother  and  her  aunt, 
said  good-bye,  and  left.  George  Golightly  took  her 
home  j  he  said  he  wanted  to  see  Godfrey. 

For  a  short  time  they  walked  in  silence.  It  was 
Grace's  suggestion  that  they  should  walk  j  she  said 
she  was  fond  of  walking,  but  could  very  seldom  find 
any  one  to  walk  with :  Godfrey  was  a  very  early 
riser,  and  took  his  exercise  before  breakfast.  Again 
she  sighed,  but  added,  "  Dear  Godfrey  !  It  is  such 
happiness  to  see  him  so  completely  engrossed  with 
his  work." 

"  You're  so  unselfish,"  said  George,  gruffly. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Grace,  "  don't  say  that.  When  a 
woman  marries  a  gifted  man  like  Godfrey,  one  of  her 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  83 

first  duties  is  surely  self-effacement.  You  see,  I 
regard  it  as  a  duty — not  a  virtue  at  all.  I  won't  say 
that  I  fully  realized  this  when  I  married.  In  those 
days  I  was  very  unreasonable,  and  hoped  to  keep  him 
entirely  to  myself.  I  wanted  his  ideas  to  be  given  to 
me  first,  and  then — well,  then  I  thought  there  would 
be  plenty  of  crumbs  for  the  public.  Wasn't  I  selfish  ? 
How  could  I  have  expected  it  ?  Of  course,  I  soon 
saw  how  foolish  I  was.  You  know  how  silent  he  is 
— particularly  about  his  writing — and  then,  when  he 
has  been  working  all  day  and  is  too  tired  to  read,  he 
likes  to  sit  and  think,  or  perhaps  play  with  the  child. 
If  I  only  thought  of  myself,  I  might  be  tempted  to 
wish  he  were  a  trifle  more  like  other  men,  or  one  of 
those  barristers  who  write  a  little.  They  are  generally 
very  agreeable,  and  just  literary  enough  to  be  interesting. 
But  I'm  afraid  all  this  sounds  like  grumbling — whereas 
I  have  everything  to  be  thankful  for." 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  have  a  pretty  dull  time  of  it," 
said  George. 

"  Well,"  said  Grace,  "  doing  one's  duty  is  not  the 
liveliest  thing  in  life.  But  it  is  strengthening — 
morally  if  not  physically.  It  is  always  comforting 
to  feel  that  one  is  trying  to  do  right." 

"  How  much  more  noble  women  are  than  men," 
said  George  with  enthusiasm,  and  thinking  .that  a 
certain  shade  of  brown  looked  awfully  well  with 
blonde  hair. 

"  I  cannot  agree  with  you  there,"  said  Grace. 
"Women,  I  know,  have  often  noble  impulses,  but 
they  fail  in  acting  up  to  them.  Suppose  we  put  it 
this  way — that  women  want  to  be  noble,  and  some 
men  are." 


84  Some   "Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

George  reflected  on  the  sweetness  of  fellow-feeling. 
"I  think  Godfrey's  a  thoroughly  good  sort,  you 
know,"  he  said  suddenly,  as  a  sort  of  propitiation  to 
his  conscience  for  a  lapse  he  was  not  quite  able,  or  did 
not  want  to  explain. 

"  He  has  fine  qualities,"  said  Grace.  And  again 
they  were  both  silent. 

Grace  had  no  doubt  married  for  what  she  considered 
affection.  It  was  not  very  deep  nor  very  strong,  but 
it  was  essentially  respectful.  Perhaps,  too,  it  was 
more  than  half  gratitude.  Provence  was  the  first 
man  who  had  ever  taken  any  marked  interest  in  her 
as  an  individual ;  one  or  two  had  allowed  her  to  play 
piano  to  their  fiddle ;  here  and  there  one  had  sent  her 
a  book  "with  the  author's  compliments";  dancing 
men,  who  dined  at  her  mother's,  usually  asked  her  for  a 
waltz  and  the  Lancers — somewhere  at  the  end  of  a 
programme  j  men  who  didn't  dance  talked  to  her  on 
politics,  the  theatres,  religion,  and  other  grave  matters, 
but  not  one  of  them  had  ever,  like  Godfrey,  talked  to 
her  about  Herself.  Until  she  met  him,  she  had  bowed 
in  humiliation  and  self-pity  to  her  mother's  dictum — 
"  Grace  was  cut  out  to  be  a  companion  to  an  elderly 
lady,  in  exchange  for  a  comfortable  home — the  sort  of 
thing  one  reads  in  the  Morning  Post.  She  will  never 
make  a  good  marriage."  He  had  given  wings  to  a 
clay  bird  :  as  much  gratitude  as  one  could  expect  from 
clay,  she  gave  in  return. 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated,  "  Godfrey  has  fine  qualities. 
But  I  wish — though,  of  course,  no  one  is  perfect — he 
would  not  give  way  to  his  moods.  It  is  very  difficult 
sometimes  to  please  him.  He  doesn't  find  fault,  you 
know  j  but  just  looks — well,  that  very  trying  look  of 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  85 

his.  Not  as  if  he  thought  himself  better  than  other 
people — one  could  deal  with  an  expression  like  that — 
but  as  though  he  felt  grieved  that  other  people  were 
not  better  themselves.  Do  you  understand  ?  And 
can  you  imagine  anything  more  irritating  ?  " 

"  He  was  always  like  that,"  said  George.  "  It's  a 
manner  that  gives  a  lot  of  offence." 

"  Naturally  it  does,"  said  Grace,  "  and  yet  I  can't 
break  him  of  it ;  in  fact,  I  can't  explain  it  to  him. 
We  are  nearly  home  now,"  she  went  on.  "It  has 
been  such  a  help  to  me,  to  be  able  to  talk  to  you  like 
this.  I  am  so  much  alone  with  my  own  thoughts.  I 
think  it  must  be  good  for  me  to  speak  out  sometimes." 

"How  is  it  we  saw  so  little  of  each  other — before 
you  married  ?  "  said  George.  "  I  feel  as  though  I  had 
missed  something." 

Grace  blushed,  and  stumbled  a  little  as  she  walked. 

"  Take  care,"  he  said,  and  caught  hold  of  her  arm. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Grace.  "I  think  I  trod  on  a 
piece  of  coal." 

"These  ruffians  are  not  careful  enough,"  said 
George,  savagely.  "What  a  ridiculous  idea  it  is  to 
pour  coal  through  a  hole  in  the  pavement."  And 
then  they  both  laughed  a  little  uneasily. 

As  they  reached  the  house,  they  saw  Godfrey  stand- 
ing on  the  doorstep.  George  turned  red,  and  felt 
guilty.  He  did  not  accept  Godfrey's  warm  invitation 
to  stay  for  dinner. 

Provence  was  carrying  an  immense  bunch  of  daffo- 
dils in  his  hand,  which  he  held  towards  his  wife  after 
Golightly  had  left  them. 

"  You  see,  Grace,"  he  said,  "  I  have  not  forgotten, 
after  all." 


86  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

Grace  had  no  eye  for  the  flowers  ;  she  saw  only  the 
amused  grin  on  the  face  of  a  passing  butcher-boy. 

"  My  dear  Godfrey,"  she  said,  "  thanks  awfully. 
But  why  didn't  you  have  them  sent  up  from  the 
shop  ?  It  looks  so  odd  to  carry  them  through  the 
streets — such  a  large  bunch,  too." 

She  gave  them  to  the  housemaid  when  she  got  into 
the  house,  and  told  her  to  "  arrange "  them  for  the 
dinner-table.  Godfrey  went  into  his  study,  and  re- 
membered miserably  how  he  had  once  given  Cynthia 
a  field-poppy,  and  she  had  kissed  it.  Although  he 
persuaded  himself  that  she  had  probably  thrown  it 
into  a  ditch  when  his  back  was  turned,  he  sighed. 
Why  was  transcendent  virtue  so  much  less  charming 
in  its  methods  than  mere  worldliness  ?  It  was  small 
consolation  to  think  that  most  men  had  wondered  the 
same  thing  since  the  Fall  of  Adam  ;  nor  did  it  occur 
to  him  that  the  fault  did  not  rest  with  virtue,  but  with 
what  man  is  too  apt  to  mistake  for  it. 


II. 

NUMBER  one  hundred  and  two,  Curzon  Street,  May- 
fair,  was  a  house  of  mourning.  That  is  to  say,  the 
blinds  were  pulled  down  and  the  servants  crept  about 
in  new  black  dresses.  In  a  small,  brightly-furnished 
room  at  the  back  of  the  mansion  the  blinds  were  up, 
and  the  sun  poured  in  on  two  ladies,  one  of  whom 
was  draped  in  crape  and  wore  white  muslin  cuffs,  as 
became  the  chief  mourner.  She  was  a  little  pale,  a 
little  subdued  in  her  expression,  extremely  handsome. 
Her  companion  looked  calm  and  dispassionate,  slightly 
interested  perhaps  in  a  Court  Gazette  she  was  studying. 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  Agatha,  say  something,"  said 
Cynthia,  at  last. 

"  Shall  I  read  you  this,  dear  ?  Can  you  bear  it  ?  " 
said  Agatha.  And  then  she  proceeded  to  read  aloud 
the  following : — 

«  '  The  funeral  of  the  late  Sir  Edward  Cargill,  Bart., 

of  North  wold  Hall, shire,  and  102,  Curzon  Street, 

Mayfair,  was  largely  attended  by  the  deceased's  many 
relatives  and  friends.  The  Marquis  of  Saltford,  Lord 
Charles  Friern,  the  Right  Honourable  Reginald 
Newbury,  M.P.,  the  Earl  of  Drumdrosset,  and  Lord 
Whetstone,  who  were  unavoidably  absent,  sent  their 
carriages.  The  service  was  most  impressively  con- 
ducted by  the  Very  Rev.  the  Dean  of  Mudborough, 
who  more  than  once  was  visibly  affected.  The  floral 
tributes  were  numerous  and  costly.  The  costume 

•7 


88  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

worn  on  this  melancholy  occasion  by  Lady  Cargill  was 
composed  of  rich  Indian  each  emir e  and  crepe,  a  most 
tasteful  and  appropriate  confection  from  the  atelier  of 
Madame  Adeline,  999,  New  Bond  Street.'" 

"  That  is  too  horrible,"  said  Cynthia.  "  For  once 
I  did  manage  to  rise  above  my  dress.  To  have  such 
things  written  about  one  is  degrading.  I  won't  stand  it." 

"  You  must  think  how  much  good  it  will  do 
Madame  Adeline,"  said  Agatha,  smoothly.  "  One 
ought  not  to  be  selfish  in  such  matters." 

"  I  am  tired  of  living.  Everything  I  touch  turns 
to  mud." 

"  Poor  dear  !  I  suppose  you  will  go  abroad.  There 
is  really  nothing  else  for  you  to  do.  May  is  such  an 
awkward  month  for  a  death — just  at  the  beginning  of 
the  season." 

"  I  shall  remain  where  I  am,"  said  Cynthia.  "  Why 
should  I  run  away  ?  " 

"You  will  stay  in  town  !  That  is  so  like  you, 
dear.  You  always  want  to  do  the  most  improper 
thing  you  can  think  of.  Surely  you  must  see  that  you 
cannot  remain  here — and  be  even  a  little  bit  cheerful. 
People  would  talk.  Whereas  abroad,  so  long  as  you 
wear  mourning,  you  can  do  anything." 

"  I  shall  not  leave  London,"  said  Cynthia,  firmly. 
"  I  have  talked  it  over  with  Aunt  Theodosia.  She  is 
coming  to  stop  with  me  ;  and  I  shall  take  up  some 
kind  of  study,  and — and  try  to  be  a  little  more 
serious." 

She  began  her  speech  defiantly  enough,  but  towards 
the  end  her  voice  grew  faint. 

The  spark  of  amusement  in  Agatha's  eyes  seemed 
struck  out  of  flint  stones. 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  89 

"  I  can  be  serious,"  said  Cynthia. 

"  I  don't  think  it  would  suit  you  if  you  were,"  said 
her  sister. 

The  desire  to  please,  combined  with  a  painful  sensi- 
tiveness to  anything  approaching  ridicule,  from  no 
matter  how  contemptible  a  critic,  was  the  essential 
weakness  in  Cynthia's  character.  She  had  enough 
sense  to  be  conscious  of  this,  and  the  knowledge  was 
gall  and  wormwood  ;  for  she  liked  to  think  herself 
proud  and  independent,  with  a  mind  above  other 
people's  opinions.  But,  as  she  told  Lady  Theodosia, 
in  one  of  her  rare  bursts  of  confidence,  "  What  is  the 
use  of  despising  their  opinions  when  I  am  at  the  mercy 
of  their  giggles  ?  "  That  morning  Agatha's  cold  smile 
was  almost  more  than  she  could  bear.  She  was  on  the 
point  of  promising  to  go  abroad,  the  next  day  if  need 
be,  when  another  powerful  weakness — namely,  obsti- 
nacy— came  to  the  rescue.  She  got  up  and  put  on  her 
bonnet. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  said  Agatha. 

"  lam  going  to  the  British  Museum,"  said  Cynthia, 
flushing  a  little.  "  I  am  not  likely  to  meet  any  one  I 
know  there,  and  this  veil  is  thick.  I  can't  sit  here  all 
day." 

"You  had  much  better  lie  down  and  have  some 
beef-tea,"  said  Agatha.  "  But  of  course  if  you  insist 
upon  going,  and  don't  feel  yourself  that  it's  the  most 
extraordinary,  unheard-of  thing  to  do,  in  the  circum- 
stances, it  isn't  for  me  to  interfere." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  look  meek,  Agatha,  when  you 
know  you  want  to  be  disagreeable." 

The  sorrowful  reproach  on  Agatha's  countenance — 
which  meant  plainly  that,  although  Cynthia  might 


90  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

forget  herself,  she  (Agatha)  could  only  offer  her  other 
cheek  to  be  smitten — filled  her  sister  with  remorse. 

"  Would  you  like  that  hat-pin  ?  "  she  said. 

Agatha  looked  at  the  ornament,  saw  that  it  had 
pearls  on  it,  and  swallowed  her  indignation  with  a 
smile. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  don't  want  it  yourself,  dear  ?  " 

So  peace  was  restored. 

Apart  from  the  fact  that  her  husband  had  been 
dead  little  more  than  a  fortnight,  and  conventionality 
demanded  that  she  should  retire  more  or  less  from 
the  public  view  for  the  present,  or,  as  Agatha  sug- 
gested, go  abroad,  Cynthia's  visit  to  the  Museum  did 
not  fill  Lady  Theodosia,  nor  the  Dowager  Lady 
Cargill,  with  any  great  surprise.  Cynthia  went  to  the 
Museum  frequently  ;  so  frequently,  in  fact,  that  Lady 
Cargill — prepared  for  the  heathenish  always  in  the  case 
of  her  daughter-in-law — almost  feared  that  she  went 
there  for  the  purpose  of  worshipping  the  Pagan  gods. 
Lady  Theodosia  simply  explained  it  as  a  "  fancy." 
Agatha  called  it  affectation.  Cynthia,  herself,  said  it 
was  a  rest. 

If  they  had  seen  her  that  particular  morning,  wan- 
dering through  the  long  galleries  like  some  uneasy 
spirit,  they  would  have  thought  that  her  idea  of  rest 
was  somewhat  inadequate.  Her  unusual  height  and 
grace,  her  deep  mourning,  and  what  her  maid  called 
"  her  way  of  putting  on  her  clothes,"  attracted  con- 
siderable attention  from  the  intelligent  public,  who 
were  scattered  in  thin  groups  through  the  various 
rooms.  One  man,  who  happened  to  be  entering  as 
she  crossed  the  front  hall,  felt  his  heart  leap  at  the 
sight  of  her.  Then  she  turned  her  head  in  his  direc- 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  91 

tion.  She  stopped  short,  caught  her  breath,  and  cried 
"  Godfrey  !  "  By  the  time  he  reached  her  she  had 
regained  her  self-command.  "What  a  mercy  it  is," 
she  said,  "that  people  are  eating  their  luncheon  ! 
They  would  have  stared.  But — you  surprised  me." 

When  a  man  loses  his  head  it  generally  takes  him 
some  time  to  find  it  again.  He  feels  as  though  he 
has  to  recognize  it  among  a  lot  of  other  lost  heads  ; 
for  the  moment  he  is  not  at  all  certain  which  is  the 
right  one — his  own.  Woman,  more  dexterous,  catches 
it  on  the  rebound. 

"  I  too  was  surprised,"  said  Godfrey.  For  the  rest 
he  could  only  remember  that  he  had  not  seen  her  for 
more  than  three  years  :  that  she  was  the  same  Cyn- 
thia, that  he  was  the  same  Provence :  that  they  could 
no  longer  be  the  same  to  each  other. 

"  I  just  came  here  for  a  change — I  often  do,"  said 
Cynthia.  "  I  am  not  studying  anything  or  going  in 
for  anything,"  she  hastened  to  explain.  "  I  suppose 
it's  a  fad." 

"  Have  you  seen  the  new  mummy  ?  "  said  Godfrey. 

Cynthia  laughed  softly.  "  On  the  stage,"  she 
said,  "we  should  have  slow  music  for  this  situation, 
and  then  we  should  say  appropriate  things.  What 
a  help  slow  music  would  be  in  real  life  !  But,  since 
we  have  not  got  it,  let  us  hunt  for  the  mummy." 
So  they  started  blindly  down  the  gallery  nearest 
them. 

"  I  read  the  notice  in  The  Times"  said  Godfrey. 
"  I  am  sorry." 

Cynthia  reproached  herself  for  having  forgotten — in 
the  first  joy  of  seeing  Provence  again — a  grief  which 
it  was  certainly  her  duty  to  remember.  Before  she 


92  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

had  married  Edward  she  had  something  like  affection 
for  him :  as  her  husband  she  had  found  him  intoler- 
able j  when  he  was  dead  the  old  affection,  half- 
pitying  and  protective,  came  back  ;  his  faults,  seen 
through  the  mist  of  a  crape  veil,  seemed  pathetic 
weaknesses  calling  for  compassion  rather  than  blame : 
his  virtues  could  be  counted.  There  were  tears  in 
her  eyes  when  she  answered  Provence.  "I  cannot 
tell  you  all  about  that  yet,"  she  said.  "  It  was 
terrible  that  he  should  die.  He  liked  to  live.  Life 
was  never  dull  to  him  :  he  thought  it  jolly,  never 
anything  else — only  jolly.  You  won't  think  that's 
an  absurd  way  for  me  to  put  it — you  will  under- 
stand. He,  who  thought  this,  is  dead,  whilst 

others "  She  paused.  She  was  not  sure  that 

life  seemed  so  utterly  worthless  to  her  at  that  moment 
as  it  had — say,  before  she  left  Curzon  Street  for  the 
Museum. 

"  You  have  changed  a  little  since  I  last  saw  you," 
she  said,  abruptly.  She  did  not  like  to  add  that  he 
looked  many  years  older.  "  Do  you  like  success  better 
than  you  thought  you  would  ?  " 

"  I  must  have  changed  more  than  a  little,  to  have 
you  ask  that,"  he  answered.  "  Is  conceit  the  usual 
accompaniment  of  wrinkles  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  say  you  were  wrinkled,"  said  Cynthia. 
"  If  you  fly  at  me  like  that,  for  nothing,  I  shall  soon 
know  that  you  have  not  changed  at  all." 

«  Cynthia ! " 

"  Yes,  I  mean  it.  And  I  think  it  would  be  a  pity 
to  quarrel,  just  yet,  because  there  are  a  lot  of  things 
we  might  like  to  tell  each  other.  Or — "  then  she 
stopped  quite  still  and  looked  at  him  swiftly  and 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  93 

coldly ;  he  knew  the  glance  well — "  perhaps  you 
would  rather  not  talk  to  me  at  all  and  I  am  taking 
too  much  for  granted." 

For  answer  he  also  gave  a  look  which  she,  too, 
apparently  knew  well.  Words  would  have  been  poor 
in  comparison. 

"  Oh,  my  dearest !  "  she  said,  "  why  did  you  not 
write  to  me,  that  time  ?  We  have  lost  three  years." 
For  once  in  her  life  she  spoke  to  him  from  her  heart, 
and  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  real  woman.  As  an 
actress  she  was  dangerously  good :  her  art  was  more 
convincing  than  the  average  woman's  nature  :  now 
she  was  natural  it  seemed  to  Provence,  in  comparison, 
as  though  a  queen  had  been  playing  beggar-maid. 
But,  as  a  man  may  wake  from  rosy  dreams  to  find 
himself  staring  at  a  mud  wall,  she  threw  on  her  rags 
again  before  he  could  answer. 

"  I  am  getting  sentimental,"  she  said,  hurriedly  j 
"when  I'm  sentimental  I'm  tedious.  You  do  the 
talking  now.  You  haven't  told  me  .  .  .  Oh,  God- 
frey, I've  just  remembered  ! — you've  got  a  wife." 

He  had  never  been  more  conscious,  more  com- 
pletely, hopelessly  conscious  of  this  fact,  almost  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  other  facts,  in  his  life.  He  saw  that  if 
farcical  comedy  became  personal  it  might  cease  to  be 
amusing. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  there  is  Grace." 

w  Is  that  her  name  ?  I  don't  dislike  it.  It  sounds 
like  the  good  heroine  in  a  novel — the  patient,  for- 
giving one  who  has  a  sweet  expression.  Is  that  being 
rude  ? " 

"  She  isn't  a  woman  you  can  sum  up  in  a  phrase. 
She  has  a  great  deal  of  quiet  reserved  force,  and  she 


94  Some  JLmotions  and  a  Moral. 

doesn't  get  to  one  point  and  stick  there.  She  de- 
velopes.  I  have  the  highest  possible  regard  for  her," 
he  added  ;  with  an  absence,  however,  of  spontaneity. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Cynthia. 

"  She  had  everything  against  her,  as  a  girl,"  he  went 
on  j  "  her  mother  was  a  very  worldly  woman  and  she 
lived  in  a  worldly  set.  Yet  with  it  all  Grace  managed 
to  assert  her  own  individuality  and  keep  her  interests 
centred  in  better  things." 

"I  see,"  said  Cynthia.  "What  were  the  better 
things  ?  " 

"Oh,  well,  I  couldn't  catalogue  them.  I  gathered 
from  what  she  said  that  the  life  she  was  leading  did 
not  satisfy  her,  and — that — well,  with — with  different 
surroundings  and  with  people — or  even  one  person — 
who  could  understand  her,  she  might  realize  her 
better  self.  It  was  stunted,  you  know,  situated  as 
she  was." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Cynthia. 

"That's  really  all,"  he  said.  "She  didn't  mind 
marrying  me,  and  I  thought,  as  I  could  never  be  happy 
myself,  I  might  at  least  try  to  make  some  one  else  less 
miserable." 

"  Is  she  pretty  ?  "  said  Cynthia,  at  once. 

"  She  has  charm,  but  she  is  not  a  beautiful  woman 
— that  is,  as  I  understand  beauty.  But  then,  beauty 
is  not  everything." 

"  Oh  no,  it  isn't  everything,  only — it's  rather  nice 
to  have  about." 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  we  ought  to  go  up  these  stairs 
— if  we  want  to  find  the  mummy." 

"  I  am  not  particularly  anxious  to  see  the  mummy," 
said  she ;  "  are  you  ?  " 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  95 

"  Oh,  Cynthia,  you  are  just  the  same." 

"You  can't  see  very  much  through  this  thick 
veil." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  your  face." 

"  Oh  !  .  .  .  Have  I  grown  dreadfully  plain  ? " 
She  seized  this  opportunity  to  lift  her  veil  up. 

"  No,  you  haven't,"  he  said. 

"  I  wish  I  were  different,"  she  sighed.  "  I  should 
probably  be  better  looking  if  my  mind  were  nicer.  I 
really  do  want  to  be  more  useful — I  have  got  money 
now.  Don't  you  think  I  might  take  an  interest  in 
hospitals  and  things  ?  " 

"  By  all  means.  I  should  send  one  of  them  a  big 
cheque  or  found  a  Cargill  Ward.  The  Cargill  Ward, 
I  think,  might  sound  better,  and  really  would  not  be 
any  more  trouble.  I  don't  know,  however,  whether 
it  would  alter  the  shape  of  your  nose  or  change  the 
colour  of  your  hair." 

"  You  needn't  be  so  brutal.  You  always  make  the 
worst  of  me." 

"  I  wish  I  could  think  that  I  did.  It  is  so  dis- 
heartening to  see  a  woman  with  any  amount  of 
honesty  about  her  wilfully  and  deliberately  contorting 
it  all  into  something  very  different." 

u  Love  me  for  my  faults  and  not  my  virtues,  dearest, 
and  then  I  shall  never  disappoint  you.  I  can  always 
live  up  to  them"  Again  that  tantalizing  glimpse  of 
the  real  Cynthia.  Not  to  defy  the  codes  of  polite 
society,  not  to  kiss  her  at  once,  not  to  forget  mummies 
and  Grace — for  at  least  one  moment — required  some 
self-restraint.  Let  any  man  imagine  himself  similarly 
situated.  Godfrey  dared  not  trust  his  tongue.  So  he 
said  nothing. 


96  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

Cynthia  continued :  "  Of  course,  I  can't  change 
myself  and  not  love  you,  just  because  you  are  married. 
There  is  no  etiquette  about  loving.  I  shall  always 
love  you — always — always.  I  would  tell  your  wife  so." 
This  idea  seemed  to  please  her.  "  I  should  be  proud 
to  tell  her  ;  but  perhaps  she  wouldn't  like  it.  It's  a 
very  strange  thing,  but  although  a  woman  may  love  a 
man  herself,  she  can  rarely  forgive  another  woman  for 
loving  him." 

"  That  wouldn't  apply  to  Grace,"  he  said,  quickly  j 
"  love  was  a  question  we  never  raised." 

"  Then  she  doesn't  love  you  ?  "  said  Cynthia. 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  Then  she  ought.     I've  no  patience  with  her." 

"But  I  don't  love  her"  said  Provence  \  "  have  you 
no  patience  with  me  ?  " 

"  That's  quite  a  different  thing.  She  probably  isn't 
lovable.  ...  I  don't  think  I  like  Grace  very  much." 

"You're  both  so  utterly  unlike.  You  wouldn't 
understand  each  other." 

"  I  think  we  should  understand  each  other  well 
enough  —if  it  comes  to  that.  I'm  sure  I  don't  want 
to  say  uncharitable  things,  but  it  certainly  wasn't 
nice  of  her  to  marry  you  when  she  didn't  love  you. 
I  can't  forgive  that." 

"  But,  Cynthia "  He  did  not  like  to  remind 

her  of  her  own  marriage.  She  saw,  however,  what 
was  in  his  mind. 

"  There  is  no  comparison  between  her  case  and 
mine,"  she  said.  "  /  was  in  a  temper.  You  had 
certainly  tried  me  very  much.  You  know,  Godfrey, 
you  can  be  very  trying  indeed  when  you  like." 

"  Trying  !     That  is  one  of  Grace's  words." 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  97 

"  Is  it  ?  I  will  never  use  it  again.  .  .  .  And  what 
does  she  mean  by  calling  you  trying — you,  of  all  men 
in  the  world  ?  Trying,  indeed  !  She  must  be  very 
bad-tempered  and — how  dare  she  say  such  a  thing  ?  " 

"She  is  not  at  all  bad-tempered — on  the  contrary, 
she  is  considered  extremely  amiable.  I  think  she  is, 
myself." 

"  Who  couldn't  be — with  you  ?  She  can't  help 
herself." 

"  But  you  were  just  saying  how  I  once  put  you 
in  a  temper." 

Cynthia's  eyes  darkened  with  reproach. 

"I  loved  you.  That  made  it  another  matter — and 
besides,  it  was  all  my  fault.  There !  Have  I  not 
suffered  enough  for  it  ?  " 

"  Has  no  one  else  suffered  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes,"  said  Cynthia.  "  I  dare  say  poor 
Edward  had  rather  a  life  of  it." 

He  had  no  answer  for  that. 

"  Did  you  ever  wonder  what  we  should  say  to  each 
other,  if  we  met  again  ? "  said  Cynthia.  "  I  have, 
often.  I  used  to  think  I  should  say,  '  How  do  you 
do,  Mr.  Provence  ?  How  is  your  wife,  and  the  baby  ? 
Isn't  it  a  curious  day  ?  '  and  then  I  thought  we  should 
shake  hands  very  stiffly,  and  perhaps  you  might  intro- 
duce me  to  your  wife  and — and — " 

"And  what?" 

"  And  that  I  should  hate  her  with  all  my  might, 
and  go  home  and  say  what  a  hideous  gown  she  had  on 
and — howl.  It  only  shows  that  things  never  happen 
the  way  you  think  they  will.  To  begin  with,  I 
knew,  the  moment  I  saw  you,  that  it  would  be  quite, 
quite  impossible  to  call  you  Mr.  Provence.  Then 


98  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

I  knew  that  if  your  wife  had  been  with  you  I  would 
not  have  spoken  to  you  for  five  kingdoms,  and  then, 
I  felt  all  over  that  in  spite  of  the  three  years  and 
Grace  and  Edward,  after  all,  we  still  loved  each  other 
just  as  much,  perhaps  more,  than  we  ever  did — and — 
and  it  only  proves  that  love  is  immortal,  and  tempers 
and  things  and  whole  centuries  have  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  it.  I  know  now  that,  even  if  we  should 
never  see  each  other  again,  it  will  be  the  same 
always." 

"  But  I  shall  see  you  again,"  said  Godfrey,  who  did 
not  care  for  the  "  if." 

"  Will  you  come  to  Curzon  Street — not  to-morrow 
perhaps,  but  the  next  day — about  four  ?  Aunt 
Theodosia  is  with  me,  and  I  shall  make  her  stay 
a  long  time.  Agatha  and  Lady  Cargill  go  back  to 
Speenham  this  evening.  Agatha  came  up  for  the 
funeral — and  her  summer  clothes." 

"  So  Agatha  is  not  married  ?  " 

"She  is  waiting  for  Sir  Galahad.  I  think  she 
deserves  him  ;  but — if  he  does  come — I  dare  say  she 
will  wonder  whether  he  deserves  her.  ...  I  suppose 
I  ought  to  go  home  now.  I  don't  want  to  go." 

"  I  suppose  you  must,"  said  Godfrey,  just  beginning 
to  realize  with  despair  that  they  would  have  to  grow 
accustomed  to  partings. 

"  You  will  come  the  day  after  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  will  come,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  shake  hands  with  him  when  they 
parted,  but  pinched  his  coat-sleeve.  When  she  got 
into  her  hansom  she  kissed  the  fingers  which  had 
touched  him.  "Good-bye,"  she  said,  and  drove  off. 

Although  his  regard  for  Grace  was  still  the  highest 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  99 

possible,  he  did  not  think  it  a  pity  that  Cynthia  was 
so  extremely  unlike  her. 

Lady  Theodosia  was  very  much  struck  by  her 
niece's  altered  appearance  at  dinner  that  evening. 
Her  cheeks  were  red,  and  her  eyes  seemed  lit  by 
a  hundred  fires,  and  all  of  them  blazing.  Following 
her  invariable  policy,  Lady  Theodosia  asked  no 
questions,  but  talked  soberly  and  appropriately  of 
solicitors,  travelling-bags,  and  quinine.  Her  discre- 
tion, however,  was  not  rewarded  until  she  announced 
her  intention,  after  a  very  slow  evening,  of  going  to 
bed. 

"  Don't  go  yet,"  said  Cynthia.  "  I've  got  some- 
thing to  tell  you." 

"  I  know,"  said  Lady  Theodosia,  "  you've  seen 
him." 

"  How  did  you  guess  ?  " 

"  You  look  as  though  you  had,"  said  her  aunt,  drily. 

"  He  is  just  the  same,"  said  Cynthia ;  "  there  is  no 
one  like  him." 

"My  dear  !     Surely  his  wife  isn't  dead." 

"  Don't  speak  of  her,  she's  detestable." 

"Wives  always  are  detestable,"  murmured  Lady 
Theodosia.  " c  Think  you,  if  Laura  had  been  Petrarctfs 
wife,  he  would  have  written  sonnets  all  his  life?'' 
Byron  said  that,  and  he  was  a  married  man.  But 
wives  and  cats  have  nine  lives." 

"  I  don't  want  anything  to  happen  to  the  creature," 
said  Cynthia.  "  I  only  want  to  ignore  her.  Oh, 
what  a  mistake — what  a  fatal  mistake  he  made  when 
he  married,  and  what  a  designing  thing  she  must  have 
been  ! " 

"  Did  he  say  so  ?  " 


ioo  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

"  Of  course  not — as  if  he  would  !  You  know  he 
didn't.  No,  he  said  she  hated  the  world  and  wanted 
better  things,  which  he  couldn't  catalogue,  and  was 
extremely  amiable  and  developed  j  and  she  has  charm, 
and  he  has  the  highest  possible  regard  for  her.  Isn't 
that  quite  enough  to  show  that  she  must  be  horrid  ? 
He  will  be  certain  to  find  her  out  sooner  or  later, 
that's  one  comfort.  I  don't  believe  in  these  women 
who  revere  their  husbands,  and  these  husbands  who 
regard  their  wives — that  is  to  say  if  their  reverence 
and  regard  are  worth  having.  If  a  man  and  a  woman 
are  constantly  together,  they  must  either  dislike  each 
other  frankly  or  like  each  other  frankly,  without  any 
beating  about  the  bush  with  respect  and  the  rest 
of  it :  that's  common  sense,  and  if  they  don't,  one's 
deceitful  and  the  other — " 

"  Is  a  fool  ?  "  said  Lady  Theodosia. 

"  No — an  angel." 

"  Are  more  men  than  women  angels  ?  " 

"  All  the  angels  we  know  anything  about  are  men," 
^aid  Cynthia.  "  Godfrey  is  coming  to  see  me  the  day 
after  to-morrow,"  she  added,  presently. 

"  There  will  be  trouble,"  said  Lady  Theodosia, 
shaking  her  head.  "  Be  advised  by  me — don't  see 
him  again.  This  is  infatuation — the  most  dangerous 
disease  in  the  world." 

"  Disease  !  "  said  Cynthia.  "  Infatuation  may  be 
disease — love  is  life." 

"  Lady  Theodosia  turned  even  pale.  "  I  never 
heard  anything  like  it,"  she  said.  "Who  would  have 
guessed  you  had  it  in  you  ?  Can't  you  see  that  you're 
talking  in  a  highly  disgraceful  manner  ?  It's  positively 
indecent.  Edward  not  cold  in  his  grave,  and  Provence 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  IOT 

with  a  wife  !  I  see  nothing  in  the  future  but  the 
Divorce  Court." 

"  Is  that  the  trouble  you  mean  ?  "  said  Cynthia. 
"  Do  you  suppose  for  one  moment  that  love  like  ours 
takes  people  to  the  Divorce  Court  ?  How  little  you 
must  know  about  it !  " 

"It  is  so  easy  to  talk  like  that  at  the  beginning. 
Human  nature  is  human  nature." 

"  But  human  nature  isn't  love,"  said  Cynthia. 

Lady  Theodosia  shifted  her  ground.  "But  the 
look  of  the  thing — how  will  it  look  ?  He  will  be 
coming  here  continually,  and  people  will  talk  j  perhaps 
his  wife  will  hear  of  it.  You  may  put  it  any  way 
you  like,  the  outlook  is  unpleasant." 

"  He  is  not  the  kind  of  man  people  could  say 
things  about.  You  have  only  to  look  in  his  face  to 
see  that." 

"We  are  not  all  Cynthias  in  love.  Besides, 
physiognomy  doesn't  go  for  much  in  a  scandal.  I 
will  admit  that  I  think  he  could  be  trusted.  So  far 
as  evil — of  one  sort — goes,  I  don't  really  fear  for 
either  of  you  much.  The  Drumdrosset  women,  with 
all  their  faults,  have  no  mud  on  their  petticoats. 
What  I  am  trying  to  urge  upon  you  is  this — that 
whenever  there  is  a  wife  or  a  husband  to  be  ignored, 
there  is  mischief." 

"  If  that  is  all,  I  won't  ignore  her.  I  will  go  and 
see  her  and  say, c  Madam,  I  love  the  very  ground  under 
your  husband's  feet !  '  What  could  she  do  ?  " 

"  First,  she  would  think  you  mad  ;  then,  that  in 
any  circumstances  you  would  be  a  very  dangerous 
acquaintance  for  her  husband.  Heaven  only  knows 
what  she  would  do." 


IO2  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

"I  suppose  you  are  right.  Only  very  dangerous 
people  tell  the  truth  about  themselves  :  the  wise  try 
to  tell  it  about  other  people  i  the  discreet  avoid  it 
altogether." 

"  It  is  useless  to  talk  reason  to  you  in  your  present 
mood.  At  the  same  time  I  don't  see  how  you  can 
expect  me  to  take  you  seriously.  Here  is  a  man  you 
have  not  seen  for  three  years  j  when  you  last  saw  him 
you  jilted  him — " 

"  I  did  not  see  him,  I  wrote  j  if  I  had  seen  him  it 
would  never  have  happened." 

"  I  can't  go  into  all  that ;  at  all  events,  he  was 
jilted.  Now  you  see  him  again,  and  come  home  and 
tell  me  that  you  love  the  ground  under  his  feet.  If 
I  were  asked  the  reason,  I  should  say — " 

"  Well  ?     What  would  you  say  ?  " 

"I  should  say  it  was  simply  because  he  is  out  of 
your  reach — or  ought  to  be." 

"  He  was  mine  first — he  is  still  mine.  He  does 
not  love  the  other  woman." 

"My  dear  Cynthia,  you  forget.  You  are  the 
other  woman — she  is  his  wife." 

a  I  don't  believe  that  God  thinks  she  is  his 
wife!" 

"  People  are  so  fond  of  quoting  God,  when  the  Law 
is  inconvenient !  And  when  God  is  inconvenient, 
they  quote  the  Law." 

"  There  is  no  law,  either  of  God  or  man,  to  forbid 
my  loving  Godfrey.  You  may  cut  off  your  hand  or 
pluck  out  your  eye  :  but  love  is  the  very  soul  of  you 
— you  can't  touch  it." 

a  Dear  !  dear  ! "  said  Lady  Theodosia  ;  "  if 
women  once  begin  to  talk  about  their  souls  they're 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  103 

done  for.  I  must  say  I  always  thought  there  was 
none  of  that  nonsense  about  you." 

"  I  never  thought  so  either,"  said  Cynthia  j  "  that's 
the  delightful  part  of  it  all.  You  know  the  story  of 
the  Sleeping  Princess." 

"  If  I  remember  the  story,"  said  Lady  Theodosia, 
"  for  one  Princess  asleep  there  was  a  palace  full  of 
snoring  bores.  And  that  just  illustrates  what  I'm 
driving  at.  It  is  only  now  and  then  that  a  woman 
has  a  soul,  and  she  generally  happens  in  poetry  and  is 
always  improper.  Look  at  Hai'dee." 

"  You  make  Don  Juan  your  gospel !  How  could 
a  creature  with  any  self-respect — quite  apart  from 
a  soul — care  for  a  Don  Juan  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Cynthia,  it  does  not  matter  in  the  least 
what  a  man  is — everything  depends  on  what  a  woman 
thinks  him  to  be." 

"I  am  not  mistaken  in  Godfrey,"  said  Cynthia, 
quickly. 

"  Did  I  say  you  were  ?  I  should  say  he  was  far 
more  likely  to  be  mistaken  in  you." 

"  Don't  you  think  there  is  anything  decent  about 
me  ? "  said  Cynthia,  passionately.  "  Is  he  the  one 
human  being  in  the  world  who  has  faith  in  me?** 

"  And  you  jilted  him.!  "  said  Lady  Theodosia. 

"  I  did — I  did.  And  to  think  that  in  spite  of  that, 
he  can  still  call  me  honest — do  you  suppose  that 
makes  me  care  for  him  less  ?  If  I  am  worthless — 
if  you  are  all  right  and  he  is  all  wrong — what  then  ? 
Shall  I  not  love  him  better  for  the  mistake  ?  After 
all,  my  love  is  real  enough :  there  is  no  mistake  about 
that." 

"  You  have  been  a  long  time  finding  it  out." 


104  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

"  You  mean  it  has  stood  the  test  of  time." 

"  Ah  !     You  see,  you  didn't  marry  Godfrey." 

"  How  can  I  expect  you  to  understand  my 
feelings  ?  " 

"  I  understand  too  well,  and  fear." 

"  Fear  !  "  said  Cynthia,  scornfully.  "  What  is  fear  ? 
Fear  is  for  cowards." 

"  And  for  lookers  on,"  said  Lady  Theodosia. 

"If  people  talked,  what  could  they  say  ? "  said 
Cynthia,  after  a  very  long  silence.  "Surely  he  can 
call  here  sometimes.  There  is  no  harm  in  that." 

"It  isn't  as  though  you  were  his  wife's  most 
intimate  friend,"  said  Lady  Theodosia. 

"  What  vile  minds  people  must  have  !  Let  them 
say  what  they  like  about  me." 

"  May  they  say  what  they  like  about  him  ?  Do 
you  want  to  see  him  pointed  at  ?  I  dare  say  you  are 
right  and  they  won't  be  able  to  say  much — but  it  will 
be  enough.  You  must  remember  he  is  a  well-known 
man.  Any  little  bit  of  gossip  about  literary  people 
and  artists  and  all  that  set  is  always  pounced  on  and 
exaggerated.  It  makes  them  more  interesting,  in  a 
low  sense.  You  may  tell  me  that  love  is  stronger 
than  death — than  destruction — than  the  world.  You 
will  soon  see  that  it  is  not  stronger  than  scandal. 
Your  love  will  bring  him  nothing  but  evil.  You 
will  be  his  stumbling-block." 

"  If  I  thought  that,  I  would  kill  myself,"  said 
Cynthia.  » 

Lady  Theodosia  waved  her  hand  impatiently.  "  I 
thought  you  prided  yourself  on  your  courage.  Meet 
your  folly  and  conquer  it.  You  will  tell  me  that 
Godfrey  is  a  man  not  easily  influenced ;  that  he  o^ 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  105 

his  own  free  will  loved  you,  and  always  will  love  you  ; 
that  he  never  has  loved  and  never  will  love  any  one 
else.  I  grant  all  that.  But  all  men  are  very  much 
what  women  make  them :  their  wills  may  be  iron, 
but  women  don't  attack  them  through  their  wills. 
They  throw  spells  over  their  judgment.  Sometimes 
the  spell  works  for  good — more  often  for  evil ;  for 
women  as  a  rule  are  meaner  than  men — though  men 
are  mean  enough,  Heaven  knows." 

"Do  you  think  that  my  influence  over  Godfrey 
would  be  mean  ?  "  said  Cynthia. 

"  No,"  said  her  aunt,  speaking  more  gently,  "  if  you 
were  his  wife  it  would  only  be  for  good.  I  used  not 
to  think  so — now  I  feel  sure  of  it.  But  as  you  are 
not  his  wife,  your  influence  is  only — can  only  be — 
dangerous.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  good  woman  : 
you  are  much  better,  much  stronger  than  I  am  really, 
and  I  want  you  to  be  always  better.  I — once — had 
an  influence ;  I  did  not  use  it  well.  When  I 
thought  I  was  most  proving  my  love,  I  was  most 
thinking  of  myself." 

Cynthia  coloured  painfully  and  began  to  tremble. 

"  Sometimes,"  said  Lady  Theodosia,  "  a  woman  can 
best  show  her  love  for  a  man  by  leaving  him.  In 
some  cases  it  is  the  only  thing  she  can  do.  Be 
brave,  Cynthia." 

"  I  will  do  what  is  best  for  him,"  said  Cynthia. 
"As  for  me — without  him  there  can  be  no  best." 
Again  there  was  a  long  silence.  "I  am  asking  so 
little,"  said  Cynthia,  at  last,  "  so  very  little.  Only 
to  see  him  sometimes.  It  isn't  much." 

"  Each  time  you  see  him  it  will  be  harder  to  say 
good-bye.  Remember  that." 


106  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

"I  am  used  to  hard  things.  Have  I  not  suffered 
enough  these  three  long  years — without  him  ?  And 
all  that  time  I  have  never  even  mentioned  his  name  : 
I  have  only  thought  of  him — thought  of  him  always." 

"I  am  not  asking  you  to  forget  him.  But  it  is 
your  duty  to  help  him  to  forget  you.  Any  woman 
can  give  up  the  world  for  a  man — that  is  easy  enough. 
When  it  comes  to  giving  him  up,  for  his  own  sake,  it 
is  another  matter.  If  a  woman  can  do  that,  it  should 
atone  for  many  sins." 

Cynthia  drew  a  long  breath  which  sounded  rather 
like  a  sob  j  then  she  went  up  to  her  bedroom.  She 
came  down  half  an  hour  later  with  a  letter  in  her 
hand.  Lady  Theodosia  saw  that  it  was  addressed  to 
Godfrey.  Cynthia  posted  it  herself,  as  she  had  posted 
another  letter  nearly  four  years  before.  When  she 
returned  from  the  post  it  seemed  as  though  she  had 
lost  her  beauty.  She  was  like  one  changed  to  stone. 

"  I  have  done  it,"  she  said  to  her  aunt  j  "  he  will 
hate  me  when  he  reads  it.  When  do  you  think  I 
shall  be  able  to  cry  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  cried  for  twenty  years,"  said  Lady 
Theodosia — at  which  they  both  laughed.  And  yet 
it  is  said  that  women  have  no  sense  of  humour. 


III. 

GEORGE  GOLIGHTLY  was  a  barrister,  of  the  kind 
known  as  rising.  He  was  considered  extremely  safe 
for  a  safe  case  ;  to  employ  him  for  the  defence  meant 
professionally  and  to  those  who  knew,  that  if  one  had 
fallen  there  was  very  little  to  prove  it.  To  employ 
him  for  the  prosecution  meant  that  one  was  in  posses- 
sion of  strong  evidence,  perhaps  injured,  not  impossibly 
respectable.  He  worked  hard  and  regularly  :  he 
made  a  good  income  :  he  dined  with  his  banker — 
when  he  had  no  better  engagement :  the  Lord  Chief 
Justice  called  him  Golightly :  the  wives  of  the 
Queen's  Counsels  gave  him  at  least  a  fortnight's 
notice  when  they  asked  him  to  dinner.  In  Lady 
Hemingway's  phrase — he  held  a  position.  To  be 
rising  is  in  many  respects  more  agreeable  than  to  have 
risen.  In  one  case  it  is  all  looking  forward,  in  the 
other  it  is  all  looking  back — and  looking  back  is  not 
the  joyfullest  work  in  the  world.  Lot's  wife  was  an 
allegory.  George,  therefore,  was  happy  as  mortals 
go.  One  morning,  however,  he  awoke  and  was  not 
happy — on  the  contrary,  feverish,  worried,  and  with 
no  head  for  business.  He  had  been  dreaming  of  his 
cousin's  wife.  He  tried  to  eat — he  tried  to  read  :  he 
thanked  God — being  orthodox — that  it  was  Sunday 
and  he  could  be  stupid  without  causing  comment. 
He  started  for  a  walk  and  found  himself  making 
towards  Bloomsbury :  he  turned  back  when  he  was  in 

107 


io8  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

sight  of  Montague  Street  and  Grace's  window  and 
walked  back  almost  as  far  as  Regent  Circus.  Then 
he  hailed  a  hansom  and  went  to  Montague  Street 
again.  This  time  he  went  into  the  house. 

Grace  was  at  the  piano  when  he  was  shown  into 
the  drawing-room. 

"  Godfrey  is  out,"  she  said,  and  blushed  a  little. 

"  If  he  won't  be  long  I  can  wait,"  said  George ; 
"but  don't  stop  playing  on  my  account,  unless  you 
are  tired.  I  have  had  rather  a  bad  night.  Some 
music  is  just  what  I  want." 

"  I  did  not  sleep  very  well  either,"  said  Grace.  "  I 
suppose  it's  the  weather — the  sudden  change." 

"I  dare  say  it  is,"  said  George,  but  they  each 
avoided  the  other's  eyes. 

"  What  shall  I  play  ?  "  said  Grace,  hurriedly. 

He  began  to  turn  over  the  loose  music  by  her  side. 
«  What  is  this  ?  "  he  said.  "  Gounod  and  Shelley. 
'  The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river*  I  should  like 
that." 

"  I  will  sing  it,"  said  Grace.  She  had  a  clear, 
rather  melodious  voice,  and  it  had  been  well-trained. 
On  that  particular  day  she  sang  even  better  than 
usual,  and  managed  to  throw  something  which  passed 
for  passion  into  the  song.  But  the  song  itself  easily 
passes  for  passion,  on  paper. 

When  she  had  finished,  George  cast  about  him  for 
something  to  say.  "  That  is  Art,"  he  got  out  at  last, 
"  the  real  thing.  Thank  you." 

"  It  is  a  man's  song  really,"  said  Grace. 

«  Why  ?  " 

"Well,  I  think  a  man  ought  to  sing  it.  Of  course 
it  is  a  man  speaking.  A  woman  wouldn't  make  love 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  109 

quite — quite  that  way.  She  wouldn't  like  to.  You 
see  it  is  rather — you  know — rather — " 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course,  it  is  rather — " 

"  It  is  very  like  Shelley,  in  fact." 

"  One  can't  help  thinking,"  said  George,  after 
another  long  pause,  "  that  Shelley  knew  what  he 
was  writing  about.  It's  awfully  true,  what  he 
says." 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  Grace,  playing  Gounod's  accom- 
paniment very  softly  to  fill  the  gaps  in  the  conversa- 
tion. 

"Well,  isn't  it?" 

"  I  don't  know.  It  doesn't  sound  much  like 
Godfrey,  for  instance." 

"Oh  !  ...  Godfrey.  Poor  dear  old  Godfrey— 
hardly  !  He's  an  awfully  good  sort,  but  really — you 
know — he's  got  no  more  poetry  about  him  than — 
than  a  whale." 

"  You  shall  not  make  me  laugh  !  "  and  then  she 
began  a  series  of  rather  musical  giggles.  George 
noticed  that  she  had  a  dimple  in  her  cheek. 

"  You  must  admit  it's  the  truth,"  he  said  j  <c  he  is 
a  stick,  isn't  he  ?  Bless  him  !  " 

"  How  can  you  ?  He's  a  kind,  excellent  husband 
— mama  says  so."  At  this  she  laughed  till  the  tears 
came.  A  cold-blooded  observer  would  have  said  she 
was  inclined  to  be  hysterical. 

"  I  like  to  see  a  man  with  some  passion  about  him," 
said  George. 

"  What  is  passion,  really  ? "  said  Grace.  "  I 
always  associate  it  with  bad  temper."  Her  expression 
was  that  of  a  mild-eyed  saint — in  a  glass  window. 
Saints  in  real  life  are  made  of  sterner  stuff. 


no  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

"  Passion  is — is  Shelley  and  that  sort  of  thing,"  said 
George,  largely. 

"I  see.  That  explains  what  mama  meant  once 
when  the  told  me  never  to  mention  it.  She  said  it 
was  a  man's  expression  :  that  ladies  never  spoke  of  it. 
I  was  very  young  and  inexperienced  at  the  time,  and 
I  didn't  understand  her.  But  I  don't  think  that  girls 
ought  to  read  poetry.  It  only  fills  their  heads  with 
ideas,  and  perhaps  hopes,  which  can  never  be  realized. 
Mama  was  right." 

"  Why  do  you  say  c  never  realized '  so  sadly  ?  * 

"Was  I  sad?" 

"Very." 

She  played  a  wrong  note.  "One  cannot  help 
thinking,"  she  said. 

"  Thinking  what,  Grace  ?  " 

"  Of  things,"  she  said. 

"  I,  too,  think  of  things, '  he  said,  eagerly.  "  I 
think  how  different  they  might  have  been." 

"  It  is  too  late  now,"  she  murmured,  "  we  mustn't." 

"  I  suppose  we  mustn't." 

"  We  ought  not,"  said  Grace,  severely. 

"  Thoughts  will  come,"  said  George  j  "  they're  the 
very  devil  for  coming." 

"  We  won't  talk  about  it,"  said  Grace. 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  it  isn't  better  to  face  facts  and 
thresh  them  out,"  said  George,  who  was  pacing  the 
floor. 

"It  requires  so  much  courage,  and  I  dare  not." 
George  knelt  by  her  side  and  took  both  her  hands. 
"  You  dare  not  ?  Then,  Grace,  you  do — " 

"  Yes,  I  do — "  Her  face  was  so  near  and  so  pink 
he  thought  it  was  folly  not  to  kiss  her. 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  1 1 1 

"  That  was  wrong,"  said  Grace  j  "  there  is  Godfrey 
and  little  Elizabeth — " 

u  Where  ?  "  said  George,  springing  to  his  feet. 

"  — to  be  considered,"  said  Grace. 

«  Confound  little  Elizabeth  !  " 

:<  How  can  you  ?     And  I'm  her  mother." 

'But  Godfrey  is  her  father,"  said  George.  **I 
have  to  take  that  into  account.  Why  on  earth  did 
you  marry  him  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  cruel  to  me,  George.  I — I  didn't  know 
any  better."  George  could  not  help  thinking  how 
very  unpleasant  she  would  seem,  if  he  didn't  happen 
to  be  in  love  with  her.  As  it  was,  an  indefinable  fear 
began  to  creep  over  him.  He  wished  he  had  never 
seen  her ;  and  kissed  her  again.  This  reassured  him 
to  a  certain  extent.  It  was  absurd  to  be  afraid  of  a 
woman  he  could  kiss — and  so  easily. 

"  I  should  never  consider  the  child  before  you,"  said 
Grace — "  you  are  first.  I  would  not  like  to  take  her 
away  from  Godfrey ;  he's  so  fond  of  her." 

"  Take  her  away  !  "  stammered  George ;  "  of  course 
not." 

"  You  know  I  never  did  care  for  the  world,"  con- 
tinued Grace,  softly  ;  "  the  world  is  nothing  to  me. 
I  have  often  thought  of  this  day  ;  I  knew  it  would 
have  to  come  sooner  or  later.  But  now  it  has  come, 
you-  must  give  me  time  to  think,  before  I  decide  on 
any  definite  step." 

"Of  course,"  said  George,  feeling  something  like 
dislike  for  her. 

"  I  cannot  endure  my  life  as  it  is,"  she  went  on. 
"  We  could  begin  a  new  life — together  in  Italy." 

"  Do  you  mean — we  could  run  away  ?  " 


112  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

She  nodded  her  head.  "  There  is  nothing  else  to 
do."  She  was  tired  of  Montague  Street,  tired  of  her 
child,  tired  of  Godfrey,  tired  of  herself — above  all, 
tired  of  being  poor.  "  There  is  nothing  else  to  do," 
she  repeated,  "  is  there  ?  As  you  say,  it  is  best  to  face 
facts.  People  would  talk  a  little  at  first,  no  doubt, 
but  they  would  soon  get  used  to  it.  You  see  we 
can  marry  afterwards.  That  will  make  it  all  right." 

George  could  only  think  of  himself  as  a  rabbit 
caught  in  a  trap.  He  had  nibbled  the  lettuce,  and 
now  he  felt  the  iron  teeth. 

«  We — perhaps  we  ought  not  to  forget — everybody, 
Godfrey  and  your  mother — " 

"  We  must  not  judge  them  by  our  selves.  They 
have  not  so  much  feeling  as  we  have,  you  must  re- 
member. Besides,  Godfrey  could  get  damages." 

George  started  as  though  he  had  been  stung. 
"  Damages  !  Oh  !  he  would  never  get  damages." 

"  Husbands  always  do,  dear,"  she  said,  sweetly. 
Then  she  pointed  to  the  window.  "  See  the  rain  !  " 
she  cried.  "  It  will  not  be  like  this  in  Italy." 

"  Then  she  put  one  of  her  arms  round  his  neck  and 
leaned  her  head  against  his  breast.  She  looked,  some- 
how, simple  enough  and  rather  piteous.  She  was  a 
little  woman — he  towered  above  her,  and  she  had  said 
that  she  loved  him.  He  felt  like  a  pillar  of  strength. 
Could  he  be  harsh  to  a  clinging,  pathetic  creature, 
with  long  eye-lashes  ?  He  put  aside  any  considera- 
tion as  to  his  loving  her,  and  resolved  to  make  the 
best  of  it. 

"  You  will  be  kind  to  me,  George,"  she  whispered. 
"Remember  that  I  am  giving  up  everything  for 
you!" 


Some   'Emotions  and  a  Moral.  1 1  3 

He  ordered  champagne  with  his  dinner  that  even- 
ing and  drank  far  too  much  of  it,  hoping  it  would 
make  him  feel  happy.  He  explained  to  the  brother 
barrister  who  shared  his  chambers — an  amiable  man 
who  knew  any  amount  about  Gregorian  Music,  and 
tippled — that  it  was  the  funeral  banquet  to  his  career. 

"  My  dear  old  chap,"  said  his  friend,  "  for  God's 
sake,  don't  you  take  to  the  bottle  as  well.  See  what 
it  has  made  of  me." 

"  There  are  worse  things  than  the  bottle,"  said 
George,  wildly. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  it's  a  woman." 

The  unhappy  young  man  hung  his  head. 

"  Shoot  her  !  "  cried  his  friend  ;  "  shoot  her  !  A 
rope  round  your  neck  is  a  trifle  compared  to  a 
woman,  and  hanging  is  quick." 

George  hid  his  face  in  the  sofa  cushions  and  sobbed. 

"You've  been  drinking,"  said  the  friend,  "  and  your 
nerves  are  queer.  But  shoot  her !  She's  carrion 
already." 


IV. 

"  You  wrote  to  me  once  before,  Cynthia." 

"  Why  do  you  remind  me  of  that  ?  It  doesn't  help 
us  to-day.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  there  is 
really  nothing  trustworthy  about  me.  I  don't  know 
my  mind  from  one  moment  to  the  next.  The  one 
thing  certain  seems  to  be  this — in  some  way  or  other 
I  must  find  amusement." 

"  Then  when  you  spoke  to  me  at  the  Museum  as 
you  did,  it  was  for  amusement  ?  " 

"Yes — if  you  like.  I  had  been  dull  so  long,  and 
I  couldn't  resist  the  temptation.  When  I  reached 
home  I  thought  better  of  it,  and  I  wrote  as  I  did.  In 
the  circumstances  I  think  that  was  rather  decent — for 
me.  I  was  afraid  you  might  take  me  too  seriously — 
again.  An  unnecessary  fear,  no  doubt  j  but  give  me 
the  credit  of  trying  to  put  things  right.  It  is  not 
often  that  I  want  to  do  even  that." 

They  were  both  in  the  drawing-room  at  Curzon- 
street.  Cynthia  was  sitting  in  an  armchair ;  Provence 
was  standing  by  the  fireplace.  He  looked  pale  and 
careworn — Cynthia  smiling  and  ironical. 

"  I  refuse  to  believe  that  letter.  If  you  did  not 
speak  the  truth  at  the  Museum,  the  whole  world  is  a 
lie." 

"No,  Godfrey,  not  the  whole  world — only  me. 
Besides,  I  never  said  I  didn't  like  you  :  I  couldn't  say 
that.  But  there  is  a  difference  between  liking  and 

"4 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  115 

loving.  I  can't  love  any  one — I  have  tried.  I  have 
no  love  to  give,  and  I  am  not  worth  loving.  Believe 
me  j  do  believe  me." 

"  Are  you  being  fair  to  yourself — or  me — now  ?  " 

"  Believe  me  !  "  she  repeated. 

"  I  believe  in  you  always,"  he  said,  quietly.     "  If 
faith  could  understand,  it  wouldn't  be  faith." 

"If  I  loved  you,  how  much  I  would  love  you  for 
saying  that ! "  She  saw  she  had  said  too  much 
and  hastened  to  atone  for  it.  "  That  really  explains 
my  feeling  for  you  from  the  beginning.  I  always 
wanted  to  love  you  and — couldn't.  That  is  why  I 
think  it  will  be  so  much  happier,  for  both  of  us,  never 
to  see  each  other  again.  Your  life  is  full  of  many 
things — first  of  all,  your  work.  Love  that,  it  will 
repay  you  better  than  loving  me.  As  for  my  life, 
that  will  pass  pleasantly  enough.  I  have  got  what 
I  always  wanted — money.  I  would  have  loved  you, 
only  I  loved  money  more.  It  was  my  first  love,  and 
I  have  been  faithful  to  it.  That  should  be  a  redeem- 
ing quality,  shouldn't  it  ?  You  can  say  I  have  been 
faithful  to  one  love.  That  can't  be  said  of  every 
woman."  She  rose  from  her  chair,  and  as  she  stood 
by  him  brushed  a  short  golden  hair  from  his  coat- 
sleeve.  She  held  it  up  to  the  light  and  it  curled  round 
her  finger. 

"  That  belongs  to  your  child,"  she  said,  "  not  to 
Grace.  I  call  that  a  rather  pretty  omen."  The 
clock  struck  seven.  "In  an  hour's  time,"  she  said, 
"  Aunt  Theodosia  and  I  shall  be  starting  for  Dover. 
Agatha  was  quite  right.  I  shall  find  it  gayer  abroad. 
Good-bye,  and — Godfrey — believe  me,  but  don't  hate 
me." 


1 1 6  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

And  so  they  parted. 

When  Lady  Theodosia  came  in  a  few  moments 
later,  she  found  Cynthia  standing  cold  and  passive 
where  Provence  had  left  her — by  the  fireplace.  As 
her  aunt  entered  she  looked  at  the  clock.  "  I  sup- 
pose," she  said,  "  we  ought  to  hurry,  or  we  shall  lose 
the  train." 

Lady  Theodosia's  heart  beat  high  with  pride  when 
she  remembered  that,  after  all,  this  self-control  ran  in 
the  family. 

It  was  not  until  Provence  had  wandered  blind  and 
despairing  through  the  streets  for  more  than  two 
hours  that  he  remembered  a  note  he  had  in  his  pocket 
from  Golightly's  tippling  friend.  This  note  had  evi- 
dently been  written  under  considerable  agitation,  and 
entreated  him  to  call  that  day.  Provence  decided  to 
forego  the  grim  pleasure  of  brooding  over  his  own 
misery,  and  drove  to  Golightly's  chambers. 

The  tippling  friend,  whose  name  was  Collingwood, 
received  him. 

"Thank  God,  you've  come,"  he  said.  "I'm  in  a 
devil  of  a  way.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Golightly. 
He's  in  trouble.  God  knows  what's  up,  but  some- 
thing is  going  to  happen.  I  feel  it." 

"  What  is  the  trouble  ?  "  said  Provence. 

"  The  usual  trouble,"  roared  Collingwood ;  "  Poti- 
phar's  wife." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  you  know  what  you're  talking 
about  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  who  the  woman  is,  but  I  know  she's 
a  bad  one.  When  a  man  talks  of  ruining  himself  for 
a  woman  he  can't  conscientiously  call  an  angel  till  he's 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  117 

drunk  two  bottles  of  champagne,  she  must  be  awful — 
perfectly  awful.  But  they're  all  awful — hell-cats 
every  man-jack  of  'em.  He  won't  listen  to  me.  He 
always  says,  '  You're  a  dear  old  sort,  Collingwood, 
but  you're  drunk.'  That's  the  worst  of  letting  your 
friends  know  you've  got  a  weakness — they  despise  you 
when  you  want  to  help  them.  But  you  can  get  at 
him— he's  got  respect  for  you.  He  hasn't  any  for 
me." 

"  I  can't  do  anything  unless  I  have  some  facts  to  go 
on.  You  must  see  that  yourself." 

"  Facts  !  Damn  facts.  I  go  by  symptoms.  I  tell 
you  the  man  is  trying  to  drink  himself  into  love — and 
he  can't  succeed.  I've  been  trying  to  drink  myself 
out  of  it  for  the  last  twenty  years,  and,  take  my  word 
for  it,  Provence,  it's  a  hopeless  game  in  either  case. 
I'm  very  fond  of  Golightly — he's  been  damned  good 
to  me.  If  he  comes  to  grief,  I  shall  lose  my  faith  in 
human  nature."  He  pushed  the  decanters  towards 
Provence  and  poured  out  a  glass  of  brandy  for  him- 
self— which  he  swallowed,  and  again  another — which 
he  looked  at. 

"  Have  you  any  suspicion — any  idea  who  she  is  ?  " 

"  Not  the  faintest.  He  told  me  I  should  probably 
know  quite  soon  enough.  He  said  this  much,  that 
her  husband  was  a  brick.  I  consider  that  a  bad  sign 
— his  calling  the  husband  a  brick.  It's  too  unusual. 
It  proves  conclusively  the  Potiphar  theory." 

"  I  will  do  what  I  can,"  said  Provence,  "  but  of 
course  a  matter  of  this  kind  wants  very  delicate 
handling.  My  wife  has  a  great  deal  of  tact,  and  he 
is  very  fond  of  her.  I  wonder  if  she  could  help 
us." 


1 1 8  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

"  Ah,"  said  Collingwood,  dropping  his  jaw,  "you've 
got  a  wife  ;  I  forgot  that." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Godfrey. 

"  Nothing.  But  I  always  forget  that  fellows  have 
got  wives." 

"Yes,  I  will  talk  it  over  with  her,"  continued 
Provence.  "  She  will  be  able  to  give  very  good 
advice." 

"  Women  are  so  deep,"  said  Collingwood. 

"  My  wife  isn't  deep,"  said  Provence,  getting  rather 
angry ;  "  that  is  not  a  word  I  care  for." 

"  Look  here,"  said  Collingwood,  "  I  like  you — it's 
a  funny  thing  to  say,  but  I  do.  At  one  time  I  didn't. 
And  let  me  tell  you  this — Golightly  thinks  a  lot  of 
you.  Don't  he  hard  on  him,  now  he's  in  a  scrape. 
He's  weak,  and  that  woman  has  a  hold  on  him.  But 
there's  stuff  in  him  yet." 

Provence  wished  him  good-night  and  left  him 
maundering  in  this  strain  over  the  brandy-decanter. 

When  he  reached  home  it  was  past  eleven,  but 
Grace  was  reading  in  the  drawing-room.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  lace  tea-gown,  and  he  thought  she  was 
looking  even  pretty :  very  innocent,  too,  and  child- 
like. He  was  rilled  with  remorse  to  think  that  the 
shadow  of  his  lonely,  monotonous  life  had  fallen  on  so 
light  and  airy  a  being. 

"  Were  you  sitting  up  for  me,  Grace  ? "  he  said. 

She  yawned.  "  I  don't  mind  the  sitting  up."  She 
did  not  think  it  necessary  to  add  that  George  Golightly 
had  been  there  the  greater  part  of  the  evening.  "  I 
should  like  to  be  told,  though,"  she  went  on,  "  when 
you  intend  to  dine  out." 

"  I  haven't  dined  at  all,"  he  said ;  "  but  I'm  very 


Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral.  119 

sorry  if  you  delayed  dinner  for  me.  I  have  had  one  or 
two  things  to  bother  me  to-day.  I'm  afraid  George  is 
in  trouble.  From  all  I  hear  from  Collingwood,  he  has 
got  into  some  entanglement  with  a  married  woman. 
Of  course,  I  can  be  sure  of  one  thing.  Even  if  it 
comes  to  the  worst,  George  would  have  to  persuade 
himself  that  he  was  doing  the  right  thing.  He's  rather 
easily  led,  but  he  would  never  act  dishonourably  with 
his  eyes  open.  I  would  stake  my  life  on  that.  I  wish 
I  could  find  out  who  the  woman  is.  Things  may  not 
be  so  bad  as  they  seem.  Can  you  think  of  any 
one  ?  " 

Grace  shook  her  head.  "  Don't  worry  about  it," 
said  Godfrey,  kindly ;  "  you  look  quite  pale  and  upset 
already.  I  ought  not  to  have  told  you  when  you  were 
so  tired." 

"  I  hate  Collingwood,"  she  said,  faintly.  "  I  don't 
believe  one  word  he  says." 

"  But  now  I  think  of  it,  I  have  noticed  a  change 
in  George  lately  myself,"  said  Provence,  "  I  can 
hardly  explain  it,  but  he  seems  different.  He  used  to 
be  very  frank  and  boyish  in  his  manner ;  now  he 
seems  cold  and  reserved.  Sometimes  I  have  fancied 
he  wanted  to  avoid  me.  .  .  .  What  a  dull,  sad  busi- 
ness life  is,"  he  added,  wearily;  "it  is  not  until  every- 
thing has  gone  wrong  that  we  see  how  easily  it  might 
all  have  been  right.  And  always  ourselves  to  blame, 
never  any  one  else — only  ourselves." 

"  7  could  be  happy  enough,"  said  Grace,  "  if  it 
wasn't  for  other  people's  interference  ;  "  and  she  went 
upstairs  to  her  bedroom. 

Twelve  o'clock  struck,  and  one — and  still  Godfrey 
sat  thinking.  At  half-past  one  he  was  roused  by  a 


12O  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

furious  knocking  at  the  hall-door.  When  he  opened 
it  Collingwood  rushed  in,  pale,  stricken,  and  breath- 
less. 

"We  are  too  late,  Provence,"  he  cried;  "I  told 
you  something  would  happen.  He  has  shot  himself. 
He  is  dead." 

They  heard  a  woman's  cry  behind  them.  Grace 
had  seen  Collingwood  drive  up,  and  had  crept  to  the 
top  of  the  stairs  to  hear  what  was  said.  When  the 
first  shock  of  his  news  had  passed  she  came  slowly 
down  the  staircase,  with  one  trembling  hand  on  the 
railings,  with  the  other  clutching  vainly  at  the  wall. 

"  Did  he  leave  any  letter  behind  him,"  she  said, 
when  she  finally  reached  the  hall. 

"  Not  a  line,"  said  Collingwood. 

She  burst  into  hysterical  tears.  "  There  is  nothing 
to  prove,  then,  that  it  wasn't  an  accident  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Collingwood,  sternly. 

For  the  first  time  she  turned  towards  Godfrey. 
"  It — is — too  dreadful — to  realize — all  at  once.  I — 
never  had  strong  nerves." 

Collingwood  left  her  sobbing  on  her  husband's  arm. 
But  the  tragedy  was  in  Provence's  face,  for  although 
he  held  her  he  looked  away. 


THE  SINNER'S  CQMEDT 


(Formerly  Fellow  of  Balliol  College,  Oxford,  and  late  Professor  of 
Greek  and  Latin  at  University  College,  London)^ 

WHO    DIED    ON 

7TH  FEBRUARY,   1892. 


"  He  was  a  scholar,  and  a  ripe  and  good  one, 
Exceeding  wise.  .  .   . 

Lofty  and  sour  to  them  that  lov'd  him  not ; 
But  to  those  men  that  sought  him,  sweet  as  summer." 

"  Whatsoever  he  said,  all  men  beleeved  him  that  as  he 
spake,  so  he  thought,  and  whatsoever  he  did,  that  he  did 
it  with  good  intent.  His  manner  was,  never  to  wonder 
at  anything  ;  never  to  be  in  haste,  and  yet  never  slow ; 
nor  to  be  perplexed,  or  dejected,  or  at  any  time  unseemely 
to  laugh  ;  nor  to  be  angry,  or  suspicious,  but  ever  ready 
to  doe  good,  and  to  forgive,  and  to  speake  truth  :  and  all 
this,  as  one  that  seemed  rather  of  himselfe  to  have  been 
straight  and  right,  than  ever  to  have  been  rectified  or  re- 
dressed. .  .  ." 


ANY  AUTHOR  TO  AM  READER. 

Reader.     But  where  are  the  Unities  ? 
Author.     In  life  there  are  no  Unities,  but  three  Incom- 
prehensibles  :  Destiny,  Man,  and  Woman. 


The  Sinner  s  Comedy. 
I. 

WHEN  the  ninth  Lord  Middlehurst  lay  on  his  death- 
bed, he  called  each  of  his  three  children  to  him  in 
turn.  The  heir  he  bade  do  his  duty,  and  remember 
that  Feudalism  under  a  just  lord  was  the  only  -Ism 
for  a  loyal  subject  and  a  patriot. 

The  second  son  he  implored  to  give  up  smoking. 

The  third  child,  who  was  his  favourite  and  a  girl, 
he  looked  at  in  silence  for  a  long  time.  When  he 
spoke,  it  was  in  a  whisper  too  low  to  be  heard  by  the 
others,  who  lingered  in  the  room  at  a  distance  from  the 
bedside. 

"  Emily,"  he  said,  "  all  things  in  life  are  vanity — 
save  one.  That  is  Love.  Find  it.  It  is  the  philoso- 
pher's stone." 

He  did  not  speak  again  till  just  before  he  died, 
when  he  kissed  his  wife's  hand  with  singular  tender- 
ness and  called  her  "  Elizabeth."  She  had  been 
christened  Augusta  Frederica ;  but  then,  as  the 
doctors  explained,  dying  men  often  make  these  mis- 
takes. 

The  effect  produced  on  each  of  the  three  by  the 
good  nobleman's  last  injunctions  was  curious  and 
significant. 

The  heir,  who  would  have  been  very  strong-minded 


126  T/ie  Sinner's  Comedy. 

had  he  been  born  a  woman,  had  a  soul  above  the 
management  of  a  country  estate.  Although  all  his 
passions  were  extremely  well-bred  and  gentlemanly, 
and  had  never  given  him  one  moment's  anxiety  from 
the  hour  of  his  birth,  there  was  one — no  less  gentle- 
manly, however,  than  the  others — which  ruled  him 
with  something  approaching  despotism.  This  was 
Ambition.  He  longed  to  make  a  mark,  or,  to  express 
it  more  vulgarly,  cut  a  figure.  Now,  fortunately  or 
unfortunately,  the  number  of  figures  which  can  be  cut 
in  the  world  is  practically  unlimited ;  the  only  diffi- 
culty is  to  cut  precisely  the  kind  of  figure  one  would 
wish.  But  that  merely  illustrates  the  playfulness  of 
the  gods.  The  kind  of  figure  Lord  Midcllehurst  liked 
to  imagine  himself  cutting  was  dignified,  important, 
and  frock-coated.  That  is  to  say,  he  was  to  be  the 
man  on  all  occasions  to  wear  the  Frock-coat  and  repre- 
sent in  one  gracious  person  the  literal  and  symbolic  in 
Frock-coats  throughout  cultivated  Europe. 

He  scraped  together  all  his  available  capital,  raised 
his  rents,  and  started  a  Daily  Paper. 

The  Honourable  Robert  Haviland,  who  was  the 
second  son,  was  noted  for  his  serenity.  When  his 
brother  was  oppressed  with  gloom  to  think  how  few 
people  he  knew  who  were  sufficiently  moral  to  dine 
with,  Robert  reminded  him  that  the  most  interesting 
sinners  usually  preferred  a  supper.  His  cheerfulness 
was  indiminishable.  He  shaved  regularly  for  the 
week  following  Lord  Middlehurst's  death,  gave  his 
lounging-coat  to  an  under-groom,  and  began  reading 
religious  novels — in  bed — as  a  first  step  towards 
reform.  At  the  end  of  the  tenth  day  he  hinted 
to  the  coachman  that  a  rat-hunt  might  be  amusing. 


The  Sinners  Comedy.  127 

Before  a  fortnight  had  passed,  he  was  limiting  himself 
to  four  pipes  a  day — with  fluctuating  success.  "  A 
fellow  can't  break  off  a  habit  all  at  once,"  he  said ; 
"  it  would  play  the  very  devil  with  his  nerves,  to  begin 
with  !  " 

Emily,  who  was  eighteen  at  the  time  of  her  father's 
death,  married  in  the  following  year,  at  her  mother's 
suggestion,  a  Mr.  Francis  Adolphus  Prentice,  of  the 
firm  of  Prentice,  Rawncliffe,  Prentice  and  Company, 
bankers,  a  gentleman  of  middle  age,  for  whom  she 
cherished  the  highest  respect  and  esteem.  She  had 
met  him  at  six  dinners,  two  tennis-parties,  and  a  court 
ball.  To  a  young  girl  marriage  only  means  a  trous- 
seau and  a  honeymoon  ;  the  trousseau  she  can  describe 
to  a  flounce  :  she  imagines  the  honeymoon  as  a  flirta- 
tion under  the  blessing  of  the  Church.  Emily,  not 
unmindful  of  her  future  husband's  brief  but  destroying 
small-talk,  waived  the  idea  of  flirtation,  and  concen- 
trated her  thoughts  on  the  trousseau.  Just  six  months 
after  the  wedding,  the  unfortunate  gentleman  died  of 
an  illness  which  began  with  a  carbuncle  and  ended  in 
complications.  Emily  was  shocked  at  his  death,  and 
grieved  because  she  could  not  grieve.  He  had  been 
so  very  kind  and  so  very  stupid.  She  went  in  mourn- 
ful weeds,  and  ordered  orchids  to  be  placed  on  his 
grave  twice  a  week.  Her  mother  suggested,  "  At  all 
events,  for  the  present." 

In  stature  Mrs.  Prentice  was  rather  above  the  aver- 
age height.  Her  symmetry  was  modern  :  she  was  the 
Venus  of  the  Luxembourg,  not  the  goddess  of  Milo. 
Her  hair,  which  was  fine  and  abundant,  was  of  that 
very  light  brown  which  usually  accompanies  a  sallow 
skin.  Emily's  complexion  was  like  porcelain,  pink  and 


128  The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

transparent.  Her  eyes  were  blue ;  they  had  the  fire 
and  brilliancy  without  the  coldness  of  steel.  Her 
nose  and  mouth  were  delicately  formed  ;  she  had  a 
little  square  chin,  with  a  cleft  which  looked  like  a  dim- 
ple. All  her  features  suggested  decision  and  force  : 
that  the  decision  would  be  shown  at  the  right  moment, 
that  the  force  would  be  well-directed,  was  less  certain. 
"A  fine  devil  spoilt  in  a  saint,"  said  one  man  of  her. 
His  wife  was  her  dearest  friend — so  he  had  a  right  to 
his  opinion. 

But  in  the  county  it  was  whispered  that  Mrs.  Pren- 
tice was  a  flirt ;  no  harm  in  her,  of  course  (the  "  Of 
Course"  always),  yet  still— a  flirt.  A  certain  estate, 
some  eight  miles  away  from  Hurst  Place  (where  the 
lady  lived  for  three  months  of  the  year  with  her 
mother),  belonged  to  a  certain  baronet,  Sir  Richard 
Kilcoursie  by  name  :  said  Baronet,  a  bachelor.  Would 
it  be  human  to  suppose  that  the  fair  Emily's  eyes  had 
not  rolled  Kilcoursie-wards  ;  that,  remembering  their 
colour  and  man's  weakness,  they  had  rolled  vainly? 
The  county — with  marriageable  daughters — hoped  for 
the  best  in  the  case  of  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Pren- 
tice. 

Sir  Richard  Kilcoursie,  of  St.  Simon's  Close,  in  the 
county  of  Mertfordshire,  started  in  life  as  the  younger 
son  of  a  younger  son.  Before  he  was  out  of  his 
short-clothes,  his  family  decided  that  he  should  enter 
the  Civil  Service.  "Then,"  said  they,  "if  he  only 
lives  to  be  sixty-three  he  will  have  a  pension ! " 
When  Richard  arrived  at  years  of  discretion,  he  saw 
no  reason  for  quarrelling  with  their  plan.  Every  day 
of  his  life  brought  him  nearer  the  pension,  and  every 
day  he  had  the  pleasure  of  spending  it  in  advance 


The  Sinners  Comedy.  129 

When  Fate  made  him  a  baronet,  and  dropped  the 
hoard  of  two  respectable  bachelors  into  his  pocket, 
he  had  something  like  ruin  staring  him  in  the  face. 
He  never  forgot  the  vision.  It  sobered  his  philosophy. 
He  began  to  take  an  interest  in  the  workings  of 
Providence.  For  the  rest,  he  was  a  man  who  found 
no  fault  with  the  facts  of  life  so  long  as  they  were 
expressed  in  picturesque  metaphor.  The  agreeable 
system  of  ethics  condensed  in  the  axiom  that  all  vices 
are  but  exaggerated  virtues,  seemed  to  him  to  breathe 
a  more  benevolent  spirit  than  the  "  Imitatio  Christi." 
He  believed  that  Man  was  the  measure  of  all  things  ; 
that  Man  was  Sir  Richard  Kilcoursie.  His  views  on 
woman  were,  perhaps,  more  remarkable  for  their 
chivalry  than  their  reverence ;  that  she  lost  her 
youth  was  a  blot  on  creation :  that  she  could  lose 
her  virtue  made  life  worth  living.  As  his  nature 
was  sensuous  rather  than  sensual,  however,  the  refine- 
ment of  his  taste  did  for  him  what  the  fear  of  God 
has  hardly  done  for  few.  He  waited  for  his  Eve : 
she  was  to  be  Guinevere,  not  Molly  Seagrim.  He 
met  her  when  he  was  twenty-three  and  she  nineteen. 
Her  name  was  Anna  Christian  :  she  was  studying  Art 
in  Jasper  Street,  Bloomsbury.  At  seventeen  she  had 
married  an  actor — a  gentleman  with  strong  feelings 
and  a  limp  backbone.  He  was  an  unspeakable  man  ; 
and,  having  endured  all  things,  she  left  him.  It  was 
a  bad  beginning,  but  two  years'  companionship  with 
the  Impossible  had  taught  her  to  bear  the  Necessary 
with  patience.  She  was  a  woman  who  perchance 
could  not  have  learnt  that  lesson  in  any  other  school. 
"  I  believe,"  she  told  her  confessor  (she  was  a 
Catholic),  "  I  really  believe  I  am  almost  meek." 
10 


I  30  The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

The  holy  man  looked  a  little  doubtful.  "At  any 
rate,"  she  faltered,  "  I  am  meeker  than  I  was."  He 
said  nothing,  but  there  was  a  certain  eloquence  about 
his  eyebrows  which  appealed  so  strongly  to  her  sense 
of  humour  that  she  even  woke  up  in  the  night  to 
smile  over  it.  "  I  don't  care,  I  am  meeker,"  she 
murmured,  and  fell  asleep  again. 

Anna  was  not  born,  she  was  made :  she  had  no 
inherited  prejudices,  only  a  consciousness  of  privilege : 
she  was  used  to  the  wilderness,  and  snuffed  up  the 
wind  at  her  pleasure.  The  men  and  women  she 
moved  among  had  no  philosophy  of  the  artistic 
temperament :  they  were  its  unconscious  data ;  they 
lived,  not  as  they  reasoned,  but  as  they  felt.  And 
Feeling  with  them  was  no  psychological  problem  ; 
they  accepted  their  moods  with  their  skin  as  part  of 
the  human  economy.  In  their  simplicity  they  were 
like  the  philosopher  who  wrote  the  whole  tragedy  of 
life  in  the  sentence :  "  Appetite^  with  an  opinion  of 
attaining^  is  Hope ;  the  same^  without  such  opinion^  is 
Despair"  Anna  found  in  Richard  Kilcoursie  a  man 
who,  though  not  of  her  world,  showed  an  immense 
appreciation  for  it.  If  he  had  no  Art,  he  had  at  least 
a  Temperament.  In  his  enthusiasm,  his  impulsiveness, 
and  buoyant  sense  of  irresponsibility,  he  was  like  the 
men  of  her  own  people  j  he  was  only  unlike  them 
where  the  difference  seemed,  in  her  eyes,  immeasurably 
to  his  advantage.  He  had  a  grace  of  manner  and 
bearing  common  enough,  it  may  be,  among  well-born 
Irishmen,  but  exceedingly  rare  among  the  art  students, 
journalists,  and  actors  of  Jasper  Street,  Bloomsbury. 
Furthermore,  he  was  handsome  in  the  chaste  and 
classic  style.  In  Anna's  thoughts  he  figured  chiefly 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  131 

as  a  work  of  art :  that  was  the  first  impression  he  left, 
and  the  one  which  remained  when  all  others  were 
dispelled  or  forgotten.  Richard  loved  her — or  thought 
so ;  she  loved  him,  and  thought  nothing  at  all  about 
it.  A  little  close  reasoning  would  have  shown  her 
that  it  was  affection  and  good-fellowship  she  bore  him, 
and  no  more.  Marriage — even  viewed  as  an  impossi- 
bility— or  the  commoner  relation  in  Jasper  Street, 
never  occurred  to  her.  Her  experience  of  the  married 
state  had  been  so  terrible  that  she  could  not  trust 
herself  to  remember  it  j  to  anticipate  even  the  risk 
of  another  such  made  her  pale. 

For  two  years  Richard  was  perfectly  happy  in  her 
friendship — or,  at  least,  possessed  by  the  excitement 
which  passes  so  readily  for  happiness ;  for  one  he  was 
contented ;  at  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  year  he 
came  into  his  title.  Then  life  took  at  once  a  wider 
and  a  narrower  meaning  :  wider,  because  his  interests 
covered  a  larger  field,  narrower,  because  his  own 
personality— the  figure  of  Sir  Richard  Kilcoursie — 
blocked  up  the  way.  Not  that  his  egoism  was  loud- 
voiced  or  swaggering — it  was  merely  constant :  if  his 
intellect  had  possessed  an  equal  stability  he  would,  no 
doubt,  have  achieved  greatness.  As  it  was,  his 
pleasure-loving  mind  found  satisfaction — if  nothing 
better  presented  itself— in  the  unsatisfactory:  he 
endeavoured  to  elude  disappointment  with  the  same 
persistence  as  the  metaphysician  seeks  for  truth.  If 
his  love-bird  proved  a  sparrow,  he  would  discover 
unimagined  charms  in  the  sparrow — not  the  least  of 
them  being  that  it  had  been  clever  enough  to  deceive 
him.  His  companionship  with  Anna  was  the  one 
really  serious  element  in  his  life.  Although  her 


132  The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

attitude  towards  the  world  was  one  of  indifference, 
it  was  only  because  she  saved  her  earnestness  for  her 
work  ;  she  lived  for  it  and,  as  it  were,  in  it.     To  be 
in  daily  association  with  a  woman  so  determined  and 
so    studious,   who,    though    often    mistaken    in    her 
opinions,  had  always  the  courage  of  them,  gave  him 
a  wholesome  reverence  for  those  who  labour  to  other 
ends  than  cakes  and  ale.     She  lived  very  frugally  in 
two  little  rooms,  and  supported  herself  by  illustrating : 
what  time  she  could  spare  from  that,  she  devoted  to 
practice  in  oils.     Her  Masterpiece,  as  she  called  it, 
was  only  waiting  to  be  painted :    it  was  all  in  her 
mind's  eye.     The  pleasures  of  her  life,  outside  her 
work,  were  few  and  simple  :  they  mostly  consisted  in 
going  to  the  theatre,  when  she  had  orders,  and  explor- 
ing London.     She  and  Richard  would  tramp  for  hours 
through  squares  and  terraces,  crescents,  streets,  and 
roads— S.E.,  S.W.,  and  W.,  N.,  and  N.W.,  and  N.E. 
— they  were  never  tired  till  they  reached  home,  and 
then  there  would  still  be  something  to  talk  over,  to 
laugh  about  and  plan  for  the  next  day.     When  the 
change  came  in  Richard's  fortune  her  tastes  remained 
the  same,  but,  when  they  went  to  the  theatre,  they 
had  a  box  and  a  chaperon.     In  Jasper  Street,  Blooms- 
bury,  where  nature  was  more  in  vogue  than  respecta- 
bility, a  chaperon  was  considered  an  unnecessary  and 
tedious  addition  to  the  ordinary  plagues  of  life,  but 
Richard  explained  that  Society  which  bought  pictures 
was  very  different  from  Society  which  painted  them : 
he  pointed  out,  with  all  possible  delicacy,  that  although 
she  might  not  care  for  the  whims  of  the  polite  world, 
he,  from  the  habit  of  his  early  training,  did  and  must. 
"  Do  you  think,  then,  you  have  been  doing  wrong 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  133 

all  this  time  ?  "  said  Anna,  quietly  ;  "  have  we  sinned 
in  dining  together,  and  talking  together,  and  walking 
together  ? " 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Sir  Richard,  flushing  ;  "but 
one  has  no  right  to  thrust  the  details  of  their  private 
life  and  their  most  sacred  convictions.  .  .  .  They 
wouldn't  be  understood,  to  begin  with.  People  would 
misunderstand  us  altogether." 

"  What  does  that  matter  so  long  as  we  understand 
ourselves  ?  "  said  Anna. 

"  I  could  not  bear  to  place  you  in  a  false  position. 
I  have  been  far  too  careless  of  appearances  as  it  is. 
In  that  respect  I  have  been  abominably  selfish." 

The  subject  dropped  :  they  never  returned  to  it 
again.  But  Society  never  heard  his  most  sacred 
convictions. 

If  Anna  had  been  true  to  herself,  however,  at  that 
crisis  she  would  have  passed  out  of  his  life  for  ever 
and  begun  the  world  afresh,  unfriended.  But  while 
she  could  face  the  world,  she  could  not  face  the  lone- 
liness :  solitude  a  deux  makes  solitude  only  one  of  two 
things — perfect  rest  or  complete  destruction.  In  her 
case  she  feared  it  would  mean  destruction.  Richard, 
with  all  his  shortcomings,  had  grown,  as  it  were,  part 
of  her  nature  ;  losing  him  would  mean  losing  her 
dearest  weakness.  She  knew,  too,  that  her  influence 
and  affection  were  more  to  him  than  all  the  moon- 
swearing  passion  in  the  world  j  that  if  he  could  or 
might  love  a  dozen  others  for  their  ears  or  their  eye- 
brows, or  their  way  of  eating  bread-and-butter,  he 
would  always  look  to  her  in  trouble  and  perplexity. 
She  would  not  desert  him.  Matters  were  at  this  stage 
when  Mrs.  Prentice  came  to  Hurst  Place  on  a  long 


134  yhe  Sinner's  Comedy. 

visit.  Sir  Richard  then  discovered  that  he  was  feeling 
tired  of  his  scheme  for  happiness.  He  decided  that 
purity  like  Anna's  appealed  to  the  sentiment  of  a  man, 
but  did  not  touch  his  sympathy.  Purity  itself  was  too 
unsympathetic :  it  had  no  Past.  Anna  had  a  heart, 
many  tender  and  lovely  traits — but  she  had  no  passion. 
He  was  quite  sure  she  had  no  passion.  It  was  a  pity. 
Emily  Prentice  was  beautiful  j  she  was  young  j  she 
was  witty ;  she  was  a  widow — and  rich.  He  fell  in 
love  with  the  Notion  of  her.  About  the  same  time 
Emily  began  to  wish  that  he  could  meet  some  woman 
(she  was  afraid  she  could  not  think  of  just  the  woman) 
who  would  lead  him  into  the  path  of  peace.  For  she 
had  heard  rumours  of  a  certain  recklessness,  of  a 
cynical  desperation,  of  a  hey-day  philosophy,  of  a 
young  eagle  playing  the  jackdaw.  She  felt  concerned : 
she  could  not  sleep  for  concern.  When  she  happened 
to  meet  him  on  the  high-road  one  morning,  she 
probably  blushed  for  the  same  reason.  He  blushed 
too.  Emily  said  she  was  quite  sure  he  would  be  glad 
to  hear  that  her  mother's  cold  was  much  better. 
(The  Lady  Middlehurst  always  had  a  cold  when  there 
was  nothing  more  amusing  to  catch.)  He  expressed 
his  delight  at  the  tidings.  Then,  by  an  odd  coin- 
cidence, they  both  began  together. 

« 1  think "  said  Emily. 

**  I  was  wondering "  said  Sir  Richard. 

a  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  she. 

c<  Not  at  all — I  interrupted  you." 

"  I  forget  what  I  was  going  to  say." 

«  So  do  I." 

"  Isn't  the  sky  blue  ?  "  she  said,  after  a  pause ; 
« isn't  it  beautiful  ?  " 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  135 

"  Very  beautiful,"  said  Sir  Richard. 

"  But  you  are  not  looking,"  said  Emily,  severely. 

"  I  can  always  see  the  sky."  This  was  bold.  He 
waited  to  see  the  effect. 

"  Yes,  but  it  isn't  always  that  colour,"  said  Emily, 
glancing  heavenward.  For  an  Angel,  it  may  be,  she 
was  a  shade  subtle. 

"  Would  you  be  angry  if  I  said  something  ?  "  said 
the  Mortal. 

"  How  can  I  tell  ? "  she  murmured. 

"Do  you  think  I  would  willingly  make  you 
angry  ? " 

"  I  am  sure  you  wouldn't — willingly.  And,  in  any 
case,  I  shouldn't  feel  anger.  I  might  be  hurt,  or 

vexed,  or ,"  she  smiled  at  him  with  beguiling 

sweetness,  "simply  amused." 

"  It  might  amuse  you,  for  instance,  if  I  made  a  fool 
of  myself."  Enamoured  man  is  alternately  the  lover 
and  the  turkey-cock. 

"  Well,"  said  Emily,  "  after  all,  you  need  not  make 
a  fool  of  yourself.  You  are  not  obliged  to  amuse  me 
that  way,  are  you  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  impetuously.  "I  don't 
know.  I  only  know  one  thing  just  at  present."  He 
caught  her  hand.  (A  country  road  has  its  advantages.) 
"  Only  one  thing,  Emily  !  " 

"  Oh  !  .  .  .  That's  a  stupid  thing  to  know.  Forget 
it!" 

«  Never." 

"  Please  forget  it." 

"Never!  never fn 

"But  there  are  other  women — much  nicer  than  I 
am — better  worth  loving — who  would  love  you? 


136  The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

**I  don't  want  any  other  woman  to  love  me.  I 
only  want  to  love  you.  May  I  ? " 

She  looked  at  him  and  owned  to  herself  that  he  was 
a  lover  any  woman  would  be  proud  of.  Honest  love, 
or  its  semblance,  will  always  gain  a  woman's  sympathy 
even  if  it  fails  to  win  her  heart.  To  Emily,  who 
doubted  whether  she  had  a  heart  to  lose,  it  had  the 
added  fascination  of  mystery.  She  envied  him  his 
gift  of  loving.  Next  to  it,  she  thought  the  gift  of 
surrendering  were  most  to  be  desired.  But  she  could 
not  make  up  her  mind  to  surrender.  Freedom,  too, 
was  not  without  its  sweetness. 

"  Love  is  not  for  me,"  she  said,  with  a  gentle  sigh  j 
"  don't  think  of  it — don't  speak  of  it.  There  is  nothing 
in  the  world  for  me  but  to  grow  old  and  die.  That  is 
my  future."  She  sighed  once  more  and  glanced  down 
at  her  hdf-mourning — designed  by  Worth.  "  Let  us 
talk  of  something  else." 

But  his  blood  was  up.  The  ancestral  Paddy 
'on  his  mother's  side)  was  tugging  at  his  heart- 
strings. "Why  did  God  put  you  in  the  world — 
if  you  are  not  to  be  loved  and  worshipped  and — oh, 
Emily  ! " 

She  laughed  in  spite  of  herself.  "  I  am  afraid,"  she 
said,  "  God  has  something  else  to  think  of  besides  my 
love-affairs  !  " 

«  Emily !  " 

«Yes,  Richard."  (He  hardly  liked  the  Richard— 
it  had  a  sisterly  inflection.) 

"  When  may  I  see  you  again  ?  Here  are  those 
beastly  lodge-gates.  I  must  see  you  soon.  Say  to- 
morrow." 

"  Well,  if  you  call,  you  are  not  to  say — the  things. 


The  Sinners  Comedy.  137 

you  have  said  to-day.  ...  In  the  first  place,  they  are 
not  true." 

He  saw  his  opportunity.  "Not  true  that  I  love 
you ;  not  true  that  I  would  give  my  life  to  even 
kiss  your  hand "  (which  he  did  on  the  spot,  with- 
out moving  an  eyelid ;  "  not  true  that  you  are  the 
most  beautiful " 

"  Don't  be  silly,"  she  said,  blushing. 

"  Do  you  believe  me  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say — you  think — you  are  in  earnest."  She 
would  not  say  more.  He,  considering  it  well  after- 
wards, decided  that  it  was  enough.  He  had  some 
knowledge  of  the  sex. 


II. 

IN  a  small  studio  in  Chelsea — a  studio  furnished  with 
severe  and  comfortless  simplicity — a  man  and  a  woman 
were  talking.  The  man  was  Sir  Richard  Kilcoursie  ; 
the  woman  was  Anna  Christian.  There  was  some- 
thing in  her  bearing  which  was  even  majestic  j  some- 
thing in  her  expression  which  was  childlike  and  yet 
not  young — a  worldly  wisdom  more  elfish  than  mortal. 
Her  pale,  delicate  face  seemed  to  peep  out  from  the  cloud 
of  black  hair  which  overshadowed  her  brows  and  hung 
in  a  large  knot  at  her  neck.  A  mouth  which  seemed 
too  firm  to  be  passionate,  and  was  too  pretty  to  be 
austere,  grey  eyes,  full  of  a  tenderness  which  was  half 
mockery,  emphasized  the  contradiction  in  terms  which 
was  the  strange  characteristic  of  the  whole  woman. 
Sir  Richard  looked  at  her  furtively,  and  very  often 
with  what  was  plainly  unwilling  admiration.  He 
would  rather  not  have  admired  her  that  day. 

They  had  been  discussing  for  more  than  an  hour 
various  practical  matters  relating  to  his  private  affairs : 
the  management  of  his  estate,  certain  poor  cousins,  the 
wages  he  was  going  to  give  his  new  coachman.  Every 
moment  he  grew  more  startled  at  her  intimate  know- 
ledge of  all  that  concerned  him :  he  realized,  with 
dismay,  that  there  had  been,  that  there  was,  nothing 
too  trivial  or  too  deep  in  his  life  for  her  regard. 

"  There  is  something  you  want  to  tell  me,"  she 
said,  suddenly ;  "  what  is  it  ?  " 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  139 

He  laughed  uneasily.  "  I  never  can  hide  anything 
from  you.  I  suppose — there  is — something." 

"Tell  me  then."  Her  voice  was  singularly  rich 
and  well-modulated. 

"  Do  you  remember "  he  began,  and  then 

stopped. 

"  Well  ? " 

"  Of  course  you  remember  that  the  Middlehursts 
are  my  neighbours.  Did  I  ever  mention — Mrs. 
Prentice  ?  She  is  Lady  Middlehurst's  daughter." 

"  I  don't  think  you  mentioned  her,"  she  said,  drily ; 
"  the  name  doesn't  sound  familiar.  Prentice^  Prentice. 
No,  you  certainly  never  told  me  anything  about  an  old 
lady  named  Prentice." 

"  I  wonder  whether  you  would  like  her  j  but — she's 
young." 

"  Young  ?  "  said  Anna. 

"  Well,  she's  twenty-two,  or  so.'* 

"  I  was  nineteen  when  you  met  me !  Is  she 
pretty  ?  " 

"  In  a  way,  yes.  In  fact,  I  suppose — decidedly." 
He  pressed  his  temples. 

«  Dark,  or  fair  ?  " 

"  Neither  one  nor  the  other.  There  is  nothing 
extreme  about  her." 

"  I  understand.     Tepid  !     What  sort  of  figure  ?  " 

"  She  is  tall  and  statuesque,"  said  Sir  Richard.  "  I 
always  feel  that  she  ought  to  have  been  called  Diana. 
Can  you  imagine  her  now  ?  " 

The  corners  of  her  mouth  just  curved.  "  I  think 
I  can." 

"  The  fact  is — can't  you  guess  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  trouble  to  make  guesses  when  you 


140  The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

are  going  to  tell  me  everything  ?  "  She  fixed  her  eyes 
upon  his  ;  he  could  not  look  away. 

"It  is  hard — in  so  many  words,"  he  stammered. 

"  You  are  so  like  a  man  !  .  .  .  I  never  thought 
you  were  chicken-hearted.  You  did  not  seem  so 
when  I  loved  you.  Perhaps  I  should  say — when 
you  loved  me" 

"  I  tell  you,"  he  said,  springing  to  his  feet,  "  Emily 
bores  me.  Do  you  think  I  love  her  ?  Do  you  think 
she  is  like  you  ?  "  He  put  his  hand  with  some  rough- 
ness on  her  shoulder,  and  undoubtedly  gave  her  a 
shake.  There  was  something  in  his  violence,  how- 
ever, which  convinced  her  far  more  than  his  protesta- 
tions that  Emily  Prentice  very  possibly  did  bore  him 
— or  would.  Her  heart  softened. 

"  You  never  wanted  to  call  me  Diana,"  she  sighed. 

"  I  shouldn't  dream  of  her,"  he  said,  walking  up 
and  down  the  room — "  I  shouldn't  dream  of  her  if  it 
were  not  for  the  estate,  and  all  that.  I  must  have  an 
heir.  You  see,  I  really  owe  it  to  my  people.  It's 
only  common  decency  on  my  part." 

"  I  thought  you  did  not  believe  in  marriage  ?  " 

"I  didn't  at  one  time.  I  had  no  responsibilities 
then— no  means.  It  was  very  different.  A  younger 
son  cannot  be  expected  to  believe  in  anything." 

"  And  is  no  one  expected  to  believe  in  a  younger 
son  ?  "  It  was  seldom  she  was  betrayed  into  bitter- 
ness— a  fact  which  most  people  attributed  to  her  want 
of  feeling. 

"  I  thought  you  would  make  a  scene.  Women  are 
so  unreasonable.  I  have  told  you  that  Emily  cannot 
compare  with  you.  What  more  can  I  say  ?  Even 
now,"  he  added,  a  little  unsteadily,  "  I  would  let  my 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  141 

family  go  to  the  devil  if  you  would  give  up  your 
extraordinary  ideas  and " 

"  Richard,"  she  said,  gravely,  "  I  will  forgive  what 
you  were  going  to  say." 

"If  you  cared  for  me  you  would  not  think  you  had 
anything  to  forgive,"  he  answered  with  a  harsh  laugh. 
"  There  is  no  crime  in  being  Real.  But  there  is  so 
much  mawkish,  false  sentiment  about  women,  that  a 
man  is  driven  to  hypocrisy  in  spite  of  himself." 

"If  you  want  a  creature  who  will  love  you  in  your 
Real  moments — if  this  is  one — and  in  spite  of  them, 
you  must  look  for  her  among  the  Follies  and  Sallies. 
With  them,  what  they  call  love  is  the  only  feeling — 
they  have  no  others  to  offend." 

Sir  Richard  looked  at  her,  and  wondered.  "The 
truth  is,"  he  said,  "  men  can't  follow  your  way  of 
loving.  You  see,  they  don't  understand  it.  It's  so — 
so "  he  paused  for  the  word — "  well,  it's  so  self- 
possessed." 

"  When  are  you  going  to  be  married  ?  "  she  asked, 
presently. 

He  felt  the  awkwardness  of  the  question :  Emily 
had  given  no  promise  yet. 

"  There  is  nothing  definitely  arranged — at  present." 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  will  be  happy." 

A  feeling  not  wholly  unlike  disappointment  crept 
over  him.  For  the  first  time  in  their  history  he 
doubted  her  love.  The  thought  brought  a  gnawing 
loneliness. 

"  Do  you  quite  understand  it  all,  Anna  ?  " 

"  Perfectly.  She  will  be  the  mother  of  your  heir  ; 
you  will  be  faithful  to  her — in  your  better  moments." 

He  blushed  and  said,  "  You  know  where  to  stab." 


142  The  Sinner  s  Comedy. 

He  could  not  see  her  j  she  touched  the  back  of  his 
coat  with  the  tip  of  her  fingers.  That  brought  her 
some  comfort. 

"  There  is  nothing  more  to  be  said,"  he  went  on. 

"  Let  me  see  her  portrait,"  said  Anna,  suddenly. 

He  pulled  a  small  leather-case  out  of  his  breast* 
pocket. 

"  How  did  you  know  I  had  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  guessed,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  smile  j  **  you 
used  to  carry  mine  !  "  She  studied  the  photograph  for 
some  minutes  and  then  returned  it.  "You  will  be 
very  glad,"  she  said,  "  to  remember  me." 

He  looked  at  her  more  than  half-credulously.  She 
nodded  her  head.  He  laughed  and  went  to  kiss  her. 
Anna  stepped  back  :  her  eyes  blazed. 

"  Never  do  that  again,"  she  said. 

A  china  vase — the  one  ornament  in  that  bare  room 
— stood  near  the  doorway.  Sir  Richard  lifted  his 
cane  and  struck  it.  It  fell  in  a  dozen  pieces. 

"  You  have  no  heart,"  he  said,  "  not  an  atom.  You 
don't  care  for  me  in  the  least.  You  never  did." 

" Yes,  I  did"  she  answered. 

« I  will  write." 

"Yes,  write." 

"  I  suppose  I  must  go  now." 

"Very  well."  She  followed  him  into  the  hall. 
"  Richard." 

"What?" 

"  Say — you  don't  care  a  damn  !  " 

His  lips  moved,  but  he  uttered  no  word. 

And  so  he  left  her. 

Her  life  with  Sir  Richard  had  been  one  of  self- 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  143 

abnegation.  She  had  danced  to  his  piping  and  wept 
at  his  mourning  :  she  had  been  his  companion — he 
had  never  been  hers.  At  first  she  had  asked  nothing 
better — a  peculiarity  in  woman's  love — at  first  j  but, 
as  time  went  on,  the  desire  to  pipe  a  note  or  two  and 
mourn  just  a  sigh  or  so  on  her  own  account  was  often 
fierce,  not  to  be  subdued,  a  little  desperate.  Still,  he 
had  been  kind  to  her,  and  faithful  according  to  his 
lights.  She  glanced  at  her  easel,  but  she  was  in  no 
mood  for  work  that  day.  She  amused  herself  looking 
through  an  old  sketch-book.  She  found  page  after 
page  of  Richard  smoking,  Richard  sleeping,  Richard 
laughing,  Richard  scowling,  Richard  standing,  Richard 
sitting,  Richard  reading,  Richard  profile,  Richard  full- 
face,  Richard  three-quarters,  Richard  back-view.  Four 
of  them  she  rubbed  out.  She  was  about  to  rub  out  a 
fifth,  when  she  burst  into  tears. 


III. 


Two  ladies  and  two  gentlemen  were  seated  in  the 
library  of  a  country-house  one  afternoon  in  September. 
One  of  the  gentlemen  wore  the  gaiters  of  a  Dean. 
One  of  the  ladies  looked  as  though  she  would  like  to 
wear  them,  if  only  for  half  an  hour.  As  it  happened, 
however,  she  was  dressed  in  a  very  tight  and  evidently 
very  new  grey  silk,  embellished  with  strings  of  beads. 
These  jangled  and  danced  with  all  her  movements,  to 
her  evident  satisfaction  and  the  men's  secret  despair. 
She  was  a  small  woman  and  extremely  slight,  yet,  in 
spite  of  her  slimness,  there  was  not  the  faintest  sign  of 
bone  about  her ;  in  feet,  it  was  said  that  the  Dean's 
sister  had  not  a  bone  in  her  body.  She  was  composed 
of  flesh,  blood,  and  spirit. 

The  other  lady,  Mrs.  Digby  Vallence,  was  tall  and 
spare,  with  a  small  face,  big  eyes,  and  a  large  mouth. 
Digby  was  fond  of  saying  that  his  wife's  face  was 
geometrically  impossible.  The  parts  were  greater 
than  the  whole.  She  was  a  very  amiable,  intelligent 
woman,  who  played  Schumann  with  a  weak  wrist  and 
was  noted  for  her  cookery  recipes.  Her  husband 
would  not  have  given  her  for  a  seraglio  of  houris. 

He  himself  was  a  man  about  fifty,  with  a  clean- 
shaven face  and  handsome  clearly-cut  features.  The 
ends  of  his  pale  yellow  necktie  were  tied  with  artistic 
abandon,  his  short  serge  coat  was  of  the  finest  texture, 
and  his  loose  trousers,  of  the  same  material,  hung  with 

«44 


'The  Sinner  s  Comedy.  145 

an  idea  of  drapery  about  his  elegant  legs.  He  wore 
the  self-satisfied  air  of  the  criticised  turned  critic  ;  his 
general  expression  conveyed  that  life  was  one  long 
struggle  with  his  own  fastidiousness — that  he  prac- 
tised toleration  as  the  saints  did  self-denial.  Mr. 
Digby  Vallence  was  a  geniieman  of  some  fame,  who 
had  translated  Theocritus  out  of  honesty  into  English, 
discovered  a  humourist  in  Jeremy  Taylor,  damned 
Rousseau,  and,  in  his  leisure,  bred  canaries.  His 
celebrated  paradox,  "  There  is  nothing  so  natural  as 
Art,"  was  perhaps  even  more  famous  than  he. 

"  You  have  never  told  us,"  he  said,  addressing  the 
Dean,  "  what  you  think  of  Mrs.  Prentice." 

The  Dean,  who  sat  in  the  corner,  had  a  fine, 
expressive  face  which  suggested  his  mobile  dispo- 
sition. The  type  was  too  unusual  to  strike  a  thought- 
less observer  as  anything  more  than  severe  j  women, 
without  exception,  called  him  odd-looking,  and  were 
silent.  He  did  not  appeal  to  them — to  begin  with,  he 
betrayed  no  desire  to  appeal  to  them.  An  unpardon- 
able insult.  The  melancholy  which  clouded  his 
countenance  was  neither  gentle  nor  resigned  ;  on  the 
contrary,  rather  fierce  and  self-mocking.  This  fierce- 
ness was  intensified  by  a  pair  of  heavy  eyebrows  and 
very  piercing  brown  eyes.  ("  One  can  never  lie  to 
Sacheverell  with  any  degree  of  comfort,"  said  the 
plaintive  Vallence.)  He  was  tall  and  well-made, 
although  he  stooped  a  little  and  looked  some  years 
older  than  he  really  was.  In  point  of  fact  he  was 
forty.  But  a  man's  age  depends  on  his  history.  His 
history  had  been  dull,  grey,  and  unromantic — an  even 
saunter  into  success  which  only  seemed  to  him  a 
crueller  name  for  failure.  "  Sacheverell  promised  to 

II 


146  The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

be  brilliant,"  said  his  college  tutor  once,  "  but  I  am 
afraid  he  is  only  solid.  He  will  be  a  rock  for  other 
men  to  sharpen  their  wits  on."  To  guess  a  man's 
fate  is  comparatively  easy :  to  perceive  its  necessity, 
its  why  and  wherefore,  is  given  only  to  the  man 
himself,  and  then  after  much  seeking  and  through  a 
mist. 

The  Dean's  sister,  Mrs.  Molle,  was  the  widow  of 
an  Irish  major,  who  had  left  her  his  lame  hunter,  four 
very  healthy  little  boys,  and  a  dying  command  that 
she  should  do  her  duty  by  the  children.  Sacheverell 
awoke  one  morning  to  find  the  pitiful  group  on  his 
doorstep  in  St.  Thomas's-in-the-Lanes,  where  he  held 
a  small  living. 

"I  knew  you  would  be  glad  to  have  us,"  said  Eleanor. 

The  next  day  his  study  was  referred  to  as  the 
drawing-room,  and  he  was  moved  to  the  attic  away 
from  the  children's  noise.  Eleanor  soon  complained, 
however,  that  the  neighbourhood  was  dull,  and  the 
house  far  too  small  for  comfort.  She  had  no  boudoir, 
and  the  nursery  chimney  smoked.  She  gave  his  old 
housekeeper  notice,  and  lectured  him  on  his  want  of 
ambition.  As  a  means  of  advancement  she  advised 
that  he  should  get  a  better  living,  in  a  decent  neigh- 
bourhood ;  take  pupils,  and  preach  Somebody's  funeral 
sermon.  "  A  man  is  not  supposed  to  keep  a  family  on 
a  Fellowship,"  she  said.  He  glanced  guiltily  at  his 
violin  j  it  represented  half  a  year's  income. 

"  That"  said  Eleanor,  "  will  lead  to  nothing  but 
liver-complaint.  Providence  sent  me  to  you  at  the 
right  moment.  You  do  nothing  all  day  but  play  and 
dream  and  scribble.  You  surely  spend  a  fortune  on 
music-paper,  I  hope  you  get  it  at  the  Stores  ?  " 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  147 

He  shook  his  head.  There  was  a  small  shop  near — 
it  was  so  much  more  convenient  j  he  could  not  say 
what  they  charged  him  ;  it  would  be  on  the  bill,  no 
doubt,  but  when  he  was  in  a  hurry 

"  That  is  not  the  sort  of  thing  one  is  ever  likely  to 
want  in  a  hurry,"  said  Eleanor  j  "  if  you  send  a  post- 
card to  the  Stores " 

He  was,  it  may  be,  a  little  quick-tempered.  "I 
could  never  order  anything — connected  with  my  work 
— in  the  same  list  with  soap  and  Gregory  powder  and 
beef-extract.  It  may  be  ridiculous,  but  that  is  my 
feeling.  Nothing  will  change  it." 

But  all  this  happened  when  Sacheverell  was  a  young 
man,  as  the  world  counts  youth,  when  his  dream  was 
to  write  Masses  on  Mount  Athos.  Now  he  was  a 
Dean,  and  visited  country-houses.  "  I  have  made  him 
what  he  is,"  Mrs.  Molle  told  her  friends  ;  "  no  wife 
could  have  done  more  for  him  !  " 

Men  heap  together  the  mistakes  of  their  lives  and 
create  a  monster  which  they  call  Destiny.  Some 
take  a  mournful  joy  in  contemplating  the  ugliness  of 
the  idol.  These  are  called  Stoics.  Others  build  it  a 
temple  like  Solomon's,  and  worship  the  temple.  These 
are  called  Epicureans.  The  Dean  of  Tenchester  was 
a  Stoic. 

"  You  have  never  told  us,"  repeated  Vallence,  "  what 
you  think  of  Mrs.  Prentice." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Sacheverell,  "  she  would  be  called 
pretty." 

"  I  have  seen  her  look  pretty  sometimes,"  said  his 
sister,  at  once.  "She  varies  very  much.  Her  hats 
don't  always  suit  her." 


148  The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

He  tried  to  feel  that  this  was  not  disturbing. 

"Well,"  said  Vallence,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
with  his  eyes  scanning,  as  it  were,  the  hidden  truths 
of  criticism,  "she  is  not,  properly  speaking,  a  pretty 
woman  at  all.  She  is  a  Manner.  To  call  such  a  work 
of  exquisite  cunning  pretty,  or  even  beautiful,  is  only 
an  attempt  at  appreciation." 

"  She  is  very  subtle,"  said  his  wife. 

"  Next  time  I  see  her  I  will  look  at  her  more  care- 
fully," said  Mrs.  Molle.  She  paused,  and  then  asked 
very  suddenly,  "Do  you  think  she  will  ever  marry 
Sir  Richard  Kilcoursie  ?  " 

"She  likes  Kilcoursie,  no  doubt,"  said  Vallence. 
"  He  is  certainly  amourache^  and  she  accepts  the  situa- 
tion. I  don't  suppose  he  wants  her  to  do  more.  It 
is  only  a  very  unselfish  man  who  cares  to  be  loved ; 
the  majority  prefer  to  love — it  lays  them  under  fewer 
obligations." 

"  Do  you  think  they  would  ever  be  happy  together  ? " 
said  Sacheverell,  slowly. 

Vallence  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "She  must  be 
disappointed  in  some  man.  To  see  men  as  they  are 
not  and  never  could  be,  is  the  peculiar  privilege  of  the 
feminine  nature.  You  see,"  he  went  on,  "  love  comes 
to  man  through  his  senses — to  woman  through  her 
imagination.  I  might  even  say,  taking  the  subject 
on  broad  lines,  that  women  love  men  for  their  virtue ; 
while  men,  very  often,  love  women  for  the  absence 
of  it." 

"  A  woman  would  no  doubt  need  a  great  deal  of 
imagination  to  love  a  man  for  his  virtue,"  said  Carlotta, 
meekly. 

But  Vallence  was  lost  in  meditation.     He  had  con- 


The  Sinners  Comedy.  149 

ceived  a  magazine  article  to  be  called  "  The  Pleasing 
of  a  Lute,"  and  beginning  thus :  The  poet  in  his 
artificial  passion  expresses  what  man  feels  naturally  and 
needs  all  his  reason  to  repress.  .  .  . 

"  I  have  heard,  as  one  does  hear  such  things,"  said 
Mrs.  Molle,  "that  Sir  Richard  almost  married  an 
actress." 

"  I  think  she  was  an  artist,"  said  Carlotta  j  "  but 
pray  never  speak  of  it  before  Emily." 

The  actress  who  might  have  been  an  artist  was 
grateful  to  Sacheverell's  fancy.  He  had  a  fine  Bohe- 
mian instinct.  "  Indeed,"  he  said,  and  looked  at 
V  alienee. 

"Ah,"  said  that  gentleman,  ever  ready  to  discuss 
one  friend  with  another — in  fact,  it  was  chiefly  for 
this  pleasure  that  he  made  them — "ah,  a  curious 
affair  altogether.  But  it  merely  illustrates  the  great 
law  of  infidelity  in  human  nature.  A  man  must  be 
faithless  to  something — either  to  a  woman,  or  his 
God,  or  his  firmest  belief.  Kilcoursie  certainly 
appeared  very  devoted  to  the  other  lady — whoever  she 
was.  I  have  heard  from  several  people  that  they 
were  always  together  at  one  time.  No  one  knows 
her  name.  They  tell  me  that  she  looks  like  Vittoria 
Colonna." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Eleanor,  thinking  that  she  must 
hunt  out  Vittoria  in  the  Classical  Dictionary. 

Sacheverell  strolled  to  the  window.  "  It  has 
stopped  raining,"  he  said.  "  I  think  I  will  go  out." 

Once  in  the  open  air,  he  threw  back  his  head  very 
much  like  a  dog  let  loose  from  his  chain.  He  almost 
wondered  how  he  had  escaped  from  that  close  room, 
the  clatter  of  the  teacups,  the  worse  clatter  of  tongues. 


150  The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

As  a  rule,  he  fell  a  too  ready  victim  to  circumstances : 
he  helped  to  build  the  altar  for  his  own  sacrifice. 
To-day,  however,  he  felt  rebellious  j  he  was  getting 
ti»ed  ;  Eleanor  had  disappointed  him.  When  a  man 
gets  an  idea  into  his  head  about  a  woman,  either  to  her 
glory  or  her  damnation,  whatever  she  may  say  or  do 
only  gives  him  one  more  reason  for  sticking  to  it. 
It  is  only  when  he  gets  an  equally  strong  idea  about 
some  other  subject,  or  some  other  woman,  that  he 
becomes  nicely  critical.  Eleanor's  virtues  had  always 
seemed  to  him  unique ;  her  faults,  numerous  certainly, 
were  only  those  of  the  Universal  (preferably,  the 
Homeric)  Woman.  That  afternoon  her  judgment 
had  been  very  shallow  ;  she  had  shown  an  incapacity 
to  look  higher  than  millinery.  It  was  vexatious. 

He  remembered  his  first  meeting  with  Mrs.  Pren- 
tice. It  was  the  day  after  his  arrival  at  the  V  al- 
ienees' ;  she  had  called  in  the  afternoon  on  her  dear 
Carlotta:  he  had  told  himself  he  was  interested, 
choosing  that  word  because  he  knew  no  other,  for  no 
man  knows  his  language  till  he  has  lived  it.  The 
possibility  of  feeling  more  than  an  interest  in  any 
woman  had  never  entered  his  head.  He  had  always 
kept  Passion  well  within  covers  on  his  bookshelf. 
Emily  had  talked,  with  a  pretty  affectation  of  learning 
(feeling,  no  doubt,  that  a  Dean  would  look  for  some- 
thing of  the  sort),  of  Heine,  and  a  new  poet,  and 
Palestrina;  he  had  noticed  the  length  of  her  eye- 
lashes, and  her  beautiful  unmusicianly  hands  \  hummed, 
when  she  had  gone,  My  love  is  like  a  melody^  and 
reflected,  having  dined  indifferently,  that  some  women 
were  like  melodies.  The  indefinite  "  some  women  "  is 
an  inspiration  which  comes  to  every  man  in  his  hour 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  151 

of  peril.  From  which  it  would  seem  that  men  and 
Deans  have  very  much  in  common.  .  .  .  Their 
second  meeting,  too,  three  days  later,  when  she  called 
again,  and  was  pleased  to  admire  his  drawings  (in 
the  style  of  Diirer)  illustrative  of  certain  passages  in 
Lucretius.  He  hastened  to  explain,  however,  that 
the  philosophy  of  that  poet  was  unconvincing. 
"  What  ts  his  philosophy  ? "  said  Emily.  .  .  .  Then, 
when  he  had  dined  at  Hurst  Place,  how  they  had 
disagreed  on  several  points,  misunderstood  each  other 
with  a  certain  deliberateness,  said  good-bye  coldly. 
How,  the  next  morning,  feeling  restless,  he  had 
walked  on  the  high-road  for  no  other  reason  than 
because  it  was  dusty,  unpicturesque,  and  apparently 
leading  no-whither — suggestive  to  the  Thinking 
Mind  of  man's  existence  ;  how  She  had  driven  past 
with  her  mother,  bedecked  and  smiling,  disquieting 
alike  to  metaphysic  and  the  sober  contemplation  of 
telegraph  poles.  Then  at  the  Tableaux  in  aid  of  the 
New  Hospital,  when  Emily  as  "Vivien" — under 
lime-light — had  gazed  with  real  sisterly  affection  on 
the  round  and  impassive  countenance  of  the  Honour- 
able Robert  as  "Merlin."  Sacheverell  had  felt  with 
some  impatience  the  incompatibility  of  such  trifling 
with  a  true  appreciation  of  the  seriousness  of  life  ;  it 
showed  him  that  Emily  was  'frivolous,  also  that  her 
hair  fell  below  her  waist.  Both  discoveries  were 
soul-plaguing :  the  first  because  it  jarred  so  horribly, 
the  second  because  he  shared  it  with  assembled 
Mertfordshire.  After  the  performance  he  had  been 
the  last  to  come  forward  :  the  only  one  who  did  not 
offer  some  tribute  (more  or  less  disguised)  to  her 
beauty.  "  I  am  afraid,"  she  had  said,  when  she 


152  The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

wished  him  good-night,  "you  don't  care  for  Tenny- 
son ! "  He  made  a  note  in  his  pocket-book  to  the 
following  effect :  No  man  can  attain  the  sublimity  of  the 
feminine  egoist.  Frivolity  !  Egoism  !  what  were  such 
abstracts  weighed  against  that  most  sweet  and  tangible 
Feminine.  To  have  discovered  that  some  woman 
was  Feminine  was  better  than  chasing  the  Absolute 
through  the  Libraries  of  Europe.  It  was,  however, 
but  a  momentary  rebellion  against  the  ruling  Uncer- 
tainty of  his  life.  He  had  dedicated  his  days  (he 
lived,  from  his  own  point  of  view,  for  two  hours 
every  morning  before  breakfast,  and  Eleanor)  to  the 
pursuit  of  the  Absolute.  His  work  when  finished 
was  to  be  called  "  The  Metaphysic  of  Religion "  : 
every  one  said  it  would  make  him  a  bishop.  Should 
he  question  the  glory  of  the  Unseen  because  one  fair 
woman  was  in  sight  ?  Bitter  self-reproach  followed 
his  brief  moment  of  exultation. 

"  All  is  vanity,"  he  sighed  at  last,  and  "  discovering 
it — the  greatest  vanity."  In  this  frame  of  mind  he 
looked  up,  and  saw  he  was  near  the  church.  The 
door  was  half-open :  he  heard  the  organ  and  recog- 
nized the  touch.  It  belonged  to  no  master-hand : 
and  lacked  everything  that  makes  a  touch — save 
audacity.  He  smiled  at  the  childishness  of  the  per- 
formance, which  was  too  unaffectedly  bad  to  offend 
his  artistic  taste.  He  pushed  open  the  door  and 
looked  in.  The  player  was  Emily.  She  wore  a 
scarlet  gown  fantastically  embroidered  in  blue  and 
gold  j  the  light  from  the  flaring  gas-jet  played  on  her 
hair  and  caught  the  diamonds  on  her  fingers.  In 
the  dark,  empty  church,  she  looked  to  him  like 
some  evil  spirit  risen  for  his  destruction.  An  evil 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  153 

spirit !     Emily  playing  "  Cujus  Animam,"  with  varia- 
tions. 

Sacheverell  closed  the  door  softly — she  never  heard 
him — and  hurried  away. 


IV. 

ALL  the  tenants  or  Avenue  Villas,  Clapham,  kept  a 
servant ;  most  of  them  were  on  visiting  terms  with 
the  curate's  wife:  here  and  there  one  had  been 
known  to  dine  at  the  Vicarage  j  one  widow,  who 
lived  at  the  corner,  had  some  rich  relations  who 
occasionally  called  on  her  in  a  carriage  and  pair.  She 
was  a  Baptist,  however,  and  the  curate's  wife  did  not 
even  know  her  name.  She  fancied  it  was  Grimmage. 
Mrs.  Grimmage,  notwithstanding,  was  a  worthy  per- 
son, and  she  had  a  permanent  boarder  whom  the 
whole  of  Avenue  Villas  held  in  very  just  esteem. 
This  boarder  was  a  Mr.  Cunningham  Legge. 

By  profession  Mr.  Legge  was  a  humourist :  he  also 
wrote  the  obituaries  in  The  Argus  (Lord  Middlehurst's 
daily  paper):  he  devilled  for  one  or  two  scholarly 
authors  (being  great  in  grammar  and  punctuation) : 
he  was  taster  to  a  poor  but  eminently  respectable  firm 
of  publishers :  he  had  written  a  volume  of  very  grace- 
ful Essays  himself:  "  To  the  Night-winds  and  the 
Moon"  One  critic  wrote  of  them  that  their  style 
reminded  him  of  Ruskin,  the  Letters  of  Cicero  and 
Charles  Dickens. 

It  was  generally  known  that  Cunningham  was  the 
son  of  a  clergyman,  a  fact  which,  apart  from  his 
genius  and  his  literary  calling,  sufficiently  explained  his 
poverty ;  that  his  wife  had  died  a  few  years  after  their 

*54 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  155 

marriage  j  that  he  had  never  been  the  same  man 
since  \  that  he  worked  from  morning  till  night  j  that 
no  one  had  ever  heard  him  complain.  To  look  at  he 
was  pale,  and,  to  the  unseeing  eye,  insignificant ;  a 
man  who  could  sit  for  hours  anywhere  and  in  any 
company  unobserved  and  silent — indeed,  his  silence  at 
all  times  was  tragic.  To  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Grim- 
mage  it  was  even  awful  and  mysterious  j  she  tried  to 
understand  him,  but  could  not.  He  was  too  dim  ;  he 
seemed  already  in  the  land  of  shadows. 

His  two  little  girls  he  kept  at  a  school  in  the 
country  j  he  had  no  friends  who  called  to  see  him — if 
he  had  any,  he  saw  them  in  town :  the  only  creature 
who  ventured  to  Avenue  Villas  was,  oddly  enough,  a 
young  and  beautiful  woman.  She  was  his  niece,  and 
Mrs.  Grimmage  knew  her  as  "  Mrs.  Christian."  She 
had  heard  Legge  address  her  as  "  Anna."  But  she 
came  very  seldom,  and  he  never  referred  to  her. 
Months  would  pass,  when  the  good  Grimmage  could 
only  wonder  whether  she  were  dead  or  gone  abroad. 

u  Mr.  Legge,"  she  found  courage  to  say  to  him  one 
day,  "  is  Mrs.  Christian  a  widow  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  quietly. 

Mrs.  Grimmage  had  just  nursed  him  through  a  very 
sharp  attack  of  bronchitis ;  she  felt  she  might  safely 
venture  on  a  little  light  conversation. 

"  She  don't  favour  you,  sir." 

"  She  is  my  wife's  niece." 

"  Is  she  anything  like  her  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said  ;  "  my  wife  was  beautiful — I  cannot 
tell  you  how  beautiful."  For  the  lover  there  is  only 
one  glory.  He  paused  and  sighed ;  his  eyes  seemed 
to  pierce  into  another  world. 


156  The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

u  Fancy  !  "  said  Mrs.  Grimmage,  "  only  fancy  ! 
Was  she  very  nice  ?  " 

"  Nice  ?  Dear  God  !  Where  did  you  learn  that 
word  ?  Nice ! "  He  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed.  But  only  for  a  moment.  The  old  dumb- 
ness once  more  took  possession  of  him  j  he  went 
silently  out  of  the  room  and  shut  himself  in  his  study. 
Mrs.  Grimmage,  who  peeped  in  a  little  later  as  much 
from  nervousness  as  curiosity,  found  him  hard  at  work 
on  his  humorous  sketch  for  The  Gossip. 

He  had  written  for  more  than  three  hours  when  he 
was  roused  by  a  sharp  tap  at  the  door.  He  opened 
it,  and  Anna,  paler  and  graver  than  her  wont,  stood 
before  him. 

"  Are  you  busy  ? "  she  said.  "  Shall  I  disturb 
you  ?  " 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  he  said,  "  I  was 
wondering  what  had  become  of  you." 

She  sat  down,  took  off  her  hat  and  loosened  her 
cloak.  "  Now  I  am  here  I  am  afraid  you  will  find 
me  very  dull.  I  have  been  working  rather  hard 
lately.  I  have  also  been  disappointed  in  one  or 
two  things.  Not  that  I  should  mind  disappointment 
— now. 

Legge  glanced  at  his  bookshelves.  "  Stick  to  the 
Immortals,"  he  said,  "  they  will  never  disappoint  you. 
And  they  are  always  there — when  you  want  them." 

"  Ah,"  said  Anna,  "  but  unfortunately  before  we 
can  love  the  Immortals  and  understand  them,  we 
must  have  some  experience  of  the  Mortal." 

He  sighed,  and  made  no  answer. 

"  Have  you  any  news  ?  "  said  Anna.  "  How  are 
the  children  ? " 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  157 

"They  are  well.  They  write  me  very  happy 
letters.  Mary  has  the  French  prize  and  Laura  has 
smashed  the  schoolroom  window.  They  both  want 
new  hats." 

"  Let  me  choose  them,"  she"  said ;  "  they  would 
like  them  much  better  if  they  came  from  London. 
Children  have  a  great  idea  of  style."  She  began  to 
laugh — not  hysterically,  but  without  mirth.  "  Richard 
is  going  to  be  married,"  she  said. 

Legge's  pale  face  burned  with  sympathy.  He  was 
not  altogether  surprised  at  the  news — like  most  people 
of  melancholic  temper,  he  had  a  quick  insight  into 
human  nature.  He  had  known  from  the  commence- 
ment that  Kilcoursie's  marriage,  with  some  other 
woman,  would  be  only  a  question  of  time.  Anna  was 
bearing  it  better  than  he  had  hoped :  her  lips  quivered 
and  she  bit  them.  In  that  one  movement  he  saw  the 
whole  struggle. 

"  When  did  you  hear  it  ?  "  he  said,  after  a  long,  a 
painful  pause. 

"  Four  days  ago.     He  told  me — himself." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  was  the  only  end  possible,"  he  said, 
gently. 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  Were  you — very  much — astonished  ?  " 

«  A  little." 

"  Will  it  make  a  great  difference  in  your  life  ?  " 

"  I  miss  him,"  she  said.  For  one  moment  her  eyes 
shone — for  even  tears  have  a  brief  brilliancy,  a  youth 
— and  then  their  light  was  quenched.  "It  is  hard  to 
have  no  one  to  talk  to.  Do  you  think  it  will  take 
very  long  to  get  used  to  this — silence  ?  " 

"  Not  long,"  said  Legge  :  "  you  will  be  surprised 


158  The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

to  find  how  soon — how  very  soon  you  will  care  for 
nothing  else." 

"  He  was  all — I  had  in  the  world,"  said  Anna,  "  the 
one  creature  who  seemed  to  love  me.  I  am  not  going 
to  cry.  Tears  mean  very  little.  I  have  cried.  But 
that's  nothing." 

"Nothing,"  said  Legge,  staring  into  the  fire, 
"  nothing." 

"  This  is  my  birthday,"  said  Anna.  "  I  am  twenty- 
three.  I  feel  very  old,  much  older  than  you,  really, 
and  I — I  do  feel  so  tired.  I  am  afraid  I  have  been 
overworking." 

"  Work  is  good,"  murmured  Legge,  "  the  only 
good — except  Hope.  I  have  lots  of  Hope." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Anna,  "  there  is  Hope."  She 
looked  hopeless. 

"I  have  been  harder  hit  than  you,"  said  Legge. 
"  I  died  twelve  years  ago  j  the  only  thing  about  me 
that  lives  is  my  stomach.  I  remember  they  fed  it 
with  chops — on  the  day  She  was  buried.  Life  is 
certainly  humorous." 

They  were  both  laughing  when  Mrs.  Grimmage 
came  in  with  the  tea.  She  wanted  to  know  whether 
they  preferred  scones  or  muffins. 


V. 

"  You  must  have  loved  somebody  else  once  ?  " 

"Never.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  impossible  to 
really  love — more  than  once." 

"  To  really  love,  perhaps — but  men  have  fancies  !  " 

It  was  in  the  music-room  at  the  Vallences'.  Emily 
was  taking  off  her  gloves.  Sir  Richard  was  watching 
her.  They  had  both  called  on  Carlotta  by  appoint- 
ment to  discuss  a  forthcoming  bazaar  :  Carlotta,  with 
a  magnificent  instinct,  was  detained  at  the  Vicarage. 
The  gentle  Digby  was  engaged  in  his  study  reviving 
an  old  dramatist.  He  could  not  be  disturbed. 

" Men  have  died  and  worms  have  eaten  them"  said 
Sir  Richard  ;  a  these  things  will  happen." 

"  Then  you  have  had  fancies,"  she  said,  with  just 
a  note  of  disappointment  in  her  voice  (she,  too,  had 
a  mind  for  Exceptions) — "  was  it  very  long  ago  ?  " 

For  one  brief,  too  brief  moment,  he  felt  tempted  to 
tell  her  the  truth.  She  was  a  woman  who  could  hear 
the  truth,  and  even  speak  it.  It  never  affected  her 
disagreeably  in  either  case.  He  thought  he  might 
hint  something  of  a  youthful  madness,  and  Emily, 
true  to  her  sex,  would  no  doubt  forgive  it  all  with 
divine  generosity,  and  hate  the  woman  at  the  bottom 
of  it  like  the  devil. 

"I  have  never  had  any  fancies,"  he  said,  at  last, 
and  (theoretically)  tore  up  Anna's  last  note,  at  that 


160  The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

moment  in  his  pocket.  But  even  this  did  not  make 
her  easier  to  forget. 

Emily  sighed  contentedly.  He  was  reinstated  as 
the  Exceptional  Man. 

"I  think  that  is  very  nice  of  you,"  she  said, 
frankly.  "I  didn't  really,  in  my  heart,  believe  that 
you  had.  I  was  almost  afraid — you  are  so  dreadfully 
honest — that  you  were  going  to  confess  to — perhaps 
one." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  Dean  ?  "  said  Richard, 
after  a  pause. 

"I  don't  think  he  was  born  to  preach  to  people 
who  want  their  Heaven  to  be  full  of  Mansions." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Just  what  I  said.  It  was  not  a  spontaneous 
criticism.  I  thought  him  out  this  morning  when 
Hawkins  was  doing  my  hair.  I  always  reserve  that 
half-hour  of  the  day  for  sober  reflection."  She 
blushed.  "I  suppose  you  think  I  am  very  frivolous. 
Women  have  to  be  j  no  one  will  take  them  seriously 
— not  even  other  women.  It  is  very  hard.  But 
what  was  I  saying  about  the  Dean  ?  Oh — well, 
there  isn't  an  ounce  of  Dean  about  him.  He's 
much  too  natural." 

"  What  an  extraordinary  idea !  Don't  be  angry, 
but  I'm  afraid  you  are  not  a  good  judge  of 
character."  He  coloured  as  he  said  it.  He  had 
too  excellent  reasons  for  doubting  her  discernment. 
"I  never  saw  any  one  so  stern  and  unbending  as 
Sacheverell  in  my  life." 

"That  sternness  is  merely  self-restraint,"  said 
Emily ;  "  how  much  self-restraint  do  you  think  the 
Dean  uses  to  endure  Mrs.  Molle?" 


'fhe  Sinner's  Comedy.  161 

"  I  should  say  she  managed  him  very  well.** 

"  How  little  men  understand  each  other,"  said 
Emily,  "  how  very  little.  Mrs.  Molle  is  helpless  and 
unhelpful.  I  shall  never  forget  his  expression  when 
Mr.  Vallence  quoted  one  day,  c  It  is  better  to  dwell  In 
a  corner  of  the  housetop  than  with  a  brawling  woman 
in  a  wide  house?  And  she,"  added  Emily,  "she  is 
so  unconscious.  She  thinks  she  governs  him  com- 
pletely." 

"  How  intolerable  !  I  should  hate  to  think  I  was 
being  governed.  I  would  do  anything  for — the 
woman  I  loved."  (This  he  said  softly,  and  uttered 
the  word  "  woman  "  as  though  it  were  something  too 
sacred  for  his  lips — a  piece  of  subtle  flattery  by  no 
means  lost  on  the  sensitive  being  by  his  side.)  "I 
would  do  anything,"  he  repeated,  "  but  it  would  be 
knowingly  and  for  love." 

"  The  secret  of  managing  a  man,"  said  the  Guile- 
less One,  "  is  to  let  him  have  his  way  in  little  things. 
He  will  change  his  plan  of  life  when  he  won't  change 
his  bootmaker  !  " 

"  How  much  you  know  !  " 

"Don't  I?" 

He  picked  up  the  tassel  of  her  girdle.  "  That  is 
very  pretty,"  he  said  ;  "  those  little  stones " 

He  walked  away  from  her  and  began  to  pace  the 
floor.  "  How  long  is  this  to  go  on  ? "  he  said. 
"  What  is  the  limit  to  a  man's  patience  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Emily.  "  What  are 
you  talking  about  ?  " 

"  I  mean — what  are  we  waiting  for  ?  " 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Emily,  "we  are  waiting  for  Car- 
lotta — and  tea."  Women  have  boundless  faith  in  the 

12 


162  The  Sinners  Comedy. 

sobering  effect  of  commonplace.  It  is  the  remedy 
they  administer  to  disordered  passions. 

Sir  Richard  looked  at  her  with  something  like 
anger.  "  This  is  not  a  subject  which  can  be  changed 
that  way.  I  must  speak.  I  should  despise  myself  if  I 
did  not.  Do  you  care — a  rap  for  me  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Emily,  at  once,  "  I  like  you  very  much. 
I  think  you  have  a  great  deal  in  you.  But  I  want 
you  to  use  your  talents.  I  suppose  I  am  ambitious 
for  you.  A  woman  likes  a  man  to  be  her  master. 
That's  a  secret.  I  want  you  to  be  what  people  say 
you  could  be — if  you  chose.  I  hate  an  idler." 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  Be  of  some  service  to  your  country.  Be  a  serious 
politician." 

He  could  not  help  smiling.  "  What !  make 
speeches  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  ?  " 

"If  necessary — yes." 

"  Are  you  in  earnest  ?  " 

"  In  earnest !  "  said  Emily.  "  If  I  could  only  tell 
you  a  tenth  part  of  all  I  would  have  you  do  !  But  I 
cannot.  Some  thoughts  belong  to  a  language  we  can't 
speak."  She  was  wishing  that  his  eyes  were  dark 
and  earnest — like  Sacheverell's  :  that  his  face  had  the 
nobility  of  Sacheverell's — that  he  was  Sacheverell. 

"  Don't  dream  about  me,  Emily,"  said  Sir  Richard  ; 
"that  sort  of  ambition  is  called  dreaming.  I  shall 
only  grieve  you  when  you  wake  up.  I  live  to  amuse 
myself.  I  think  life  is  the  most  lively  thing  going. 
I  want  to  enjoy  every  hour  of  it.  But  I  must  enjoy 
it  my  way.  And  it  is  such  a  different  way  from 
yours — so  very,  very  different.  If  you  care  for  me 
ever  so  little,  let  it  be  for  me  as  I  am.  I  should 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  163 

always  be  jealous  of  the  imaginary  me.  I  would 
know  I  was  only  his  shadow." 

"I  do — like  you  as  you  are,"  murmured  Emily. 
"  I  am  sure  I  am  not  mistaken." 

"Do  you  like  me  well  enough  to  be  my  wife  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know — I — you  see — I — don't  want  to  be 
anybody's  wife — just  yet." 

"  I  will  wait — I  will  wait  as  long  as  you  wish.  I 
only  want  to  know  that  some  day " 

Some  day  sounded  a  lifetime  distant.  "  Who 
knows — what  might  happen — some  day  ?  "  she  said. 

He  drew  a  long  breath.     "  Will  you  promise  ?  " 

To  promise  that  something  would  happen  some  day 
seemed  even  childish  in  its  simplicity.  "  If  you  like," 
she  said,  half-laughing. 

"  My  love  for  you,"  he  said,  "  is  a  power  outside 
myself.  I  cannot  control  it — //  controls  me.  It  is 
for  you  to  decide  whether  for  good  or  evil."  Dimly 
it  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  said  something  of  the 
kind  once  before — to  Anna.  "I  will  try  to  be 
worthy  of  you,"  he  added.  She  was  a  very  pretty 
woman.  He  stooped  and  kissed  her  hand. 

Just  then  Sacheverell  entered  the  room. 

"  They  told  me  you  were  here,"  he  said  j  "  I  have 
come  to  say  good-bye.  I  have  just  received  a  tele- 
gram which  calls  me  back  to  town.  I  must  catch  the 
5.40." 

He  looked  so  unlike  himself  that  Emily  faltered,  "  I 
hope  it  is  not  bad  news  ?  " 

"  A  very  old  friend  is  dying,"  he  said  j  "  he  has 
sent  for  me.  That  is  all." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Emily. 

"  If  he  lived  it  would  be  sadder.1* 


164  *The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

u  How  is  that  ?  "  said  Sir  Richard,  who  was  admiring 
Emily's  mouth. 

"  Because,"  said  Sacheverell,  sternly,  "  his  life  has 
been  all  work  and  suffering." 

u  I  am  sorry,"  murmured  Emily  again. 

"  Do  not  pity  him.  He  has  chosen  the  good  part. 
Good-bye."  He  shook  hands  with  them  both  and 
went  out. 

"  He  is  very  depressing,"  said  Sir  Richard,  after  a 
pause.  Emily  did  not  hear.  She  was  listening  to  the 
echo  of  SacheverelPs  footsteps  as  it  grew  fainter  and 
finally  ceased. 

"  I  believe  you  rather  like  him,"  said  Sir  Richard, 
jealously. 

"He  was  interesting.  He  has  made  me  forget 
three  headaches  ! " 

"  Yes  ?  A  man  may  give  his  whole  life  to  a 
woman,  and  it  won't  mean  so  much  to  her  as  if  he 
had  once  jawed  her  out  of  neuralgia ! " 

"  And  a  woman,"  said  Emily,  "  may  give  her  soul 
for  a  man,  and  he  won't  think  so  much  of  her  as  if — 
she  had  jilted  him  for  somebody  else." 

Sir  Richard  laughed.  "  We  must  not  take  human 
nature  too  seriously  !  That  is  the  mistake  which  lies 
at  the  root  of  all  the  misery  and  discontent  in  the 
world!" 

Then  Carlotta  came  in — apologetic  but  smiling. 


VI. 

w  WHAT  is  the  time,  Anna  ?  " 

"  It  is  past  eleven,  uncle.  He  will  not  come  now. 
You  must  wait  till  morning.  Besides,  there  is  no 
hurry.  Won't  you  try  and  go  to  sleep  ?  " 

"  He  said  he  would  come,  and  he  will  be  here.  He 
always  keeps  his  word.  Put  the  clock  where  I  can 
see  it,  dear,  and  go  to  bed.  If  I  want  anything,  I 
will  ring." 

"  I  am  not  tired  enough — to  go  to  bed,"  said  Anna, 
whose  eyes  were  heavy  with  watching.  "  Let  me 
read  you  to  sleep.  If  Dean  Sacheverell  comes,  I  can 
wake  you." 

Legge  had  been  ill  for  nearly  a  fortnight.  They 
said  he  had  not  rested  sufficiently  after  his  attack  of 
bronchitis  j  he  had  tried  his  strength  too  soon  :  they 
called  his  condition  a  relapse.  He  knew  it  was  the 
end,  because  he  felt  so  happy.  "  To  see  you  lying  in 
bed  and  not  fretting  and  grizzling  over  it,  is  a  perfeck 
treat !  "  said  Mrs.  Grimmage. 

"  I  have  no  book  to  finish  this  time,"  he  said, 
smiling  j  "  that  is  all  done." 

When  he  told  them — for  Anna,  too,  had  come  to 
nurse  him — that  he  wished  to  see  a  friend,  it  was 
regarded  as  a  hopeful  sign.  There  was  a  touch  of 
the  usual  and  human  in  the  desire  which  cheered 
the  soul  of  Sarah  Grimmage.  "  He  only  wants 
livening  up,  bless  you  ! "  she  said  to  the  doctor. 


1 66  'The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

Anna  fell  asleep  in  her  chair  while  Legge  watched 
the  clock.  At  a  quarter  to  twelve  Sacheverell  arrived. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  you  had  given  me  up  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Legge,  "  I  knew  you  would  come." 

Sacheverell  just  noticed  that  a  pale  woman  with  grey 
eyes  murmured  something  to  the  sick  man,  and  left 
the  room.  In  some  way  she  seemed  a  remarkable 
woman — quite  unlike  any  other  woman  he  had  ever 
seen.  As  he  looked  at  her,  it  seemed  like  reading 
an  unfinished  tragedy — with  the  catastrophe  to  be 
written.  When  she  had  gone,  Legge  turned  to  him 
and  sighed. 

"That  is  my  Dearest's  niece,"  he  said,  "the  one 
whose  mother — had  a  history — you  remember.  I 
should  feel  so  glad — if  it  were  not  for  her.  I  am  not 
much  to  her,  but  when  I  am  gone  she  will  have  no 
one.  She  has  had  a  terrible  life.  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  some  of  it — I  am  afraid  I'm  hardly  strong  enough 
— to-night."  He  spoke  with  great  difficulty,  and 
between  long  pauses.  "  A  brave  woman — and  good. 
Strange — you  were  stopping — with  the  Vallences. 
Never  mention — Kilcoursie — if  you  met  him.  I 
don't  seem  able — to  say  much — now  you  have  come 
...  a  lot  of  things — good  of  you  to  come.  I  shall 
not  forget.  ...  I  knew  you  would.  The  chil- 
dren  "  He  closed  his  eyes,  but  said  presently : 

"I  have  been  waiting  to  see  my  Dearest — so  long. 
She  will  think  I  have  changed."  A  faint  smile  moved 
his  lips.  "  I  am  rather  sleepy.  You  don't  mind  ?  " 

Sacheverell  sat  down  by  his  side  and  waited. 

Mrs.  Grimmage  and  Anna,  in  the  meantime,  were 
talking  with  some  show  of  blithesomeness  in  the  next 
room. 


T'he  Sinner's  Comedy.  167 

"If  you  want  to  know  my  idea  of  a  Man,"  said 
Mrs.  Grimmage,  "  the  Dean  is  my  idea  to  the  very 
life.  The  moment  I  clapped  eyes  on  him,  I  said  to 
myself,  '  That  is  a  Man  ' — and  meant  it.  I  suppose 
he's  married.  He's  got  a  sort  of  patient,  bearing-up 
look.  Perhaps  she's  a  currick's  daughter,  and  a  fright. 
Men  are  wonderful  poor  judges  of  looks.  They  will 
pick  out  girls  that  you  and  I  wouldn't  look  at  a 
second  time,  and  go  raving  cracked  after  'em.  I 
know  'em.  You  can't  tell  me  anything  about  Men. 
But  I  like  a  man  to  be  manly.  Let  him  be  decent,  I 
say,  but  let  him  be  a  Man."  She  looked  wise  over  this 
dark  utterance. 

"  A  man's  way  of  loving  is  so  different  from  a 
woman's,"  sighed  Anna. 

"  There  ain't  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Grimmage, "  there 
ain't  nothing  that  makes  them  so  sulky  and  turns  them 
against  you  so  soon  as  saying  anything  like  that.  And 
that's  a  mistake  girls  always  make.  They  begin  the 
heavenly.  It's  not  a  bit  of  use  being  heavenly  with 
men.  Just  you  remember  that.  You  must  take  'em 
as  they  are,  or  leave  'em." 

"  I  see,"  said  Anna. 

"  There's  many  a  young  woman  lost  a  man's 
love,"  observed  Mrs.  Grimmage,  "  by  coming  the 
heavenly." 

"  She's  better  without  it,"  said  Anna,  "  much 
better." 

"  The  most  faithfullest  man  I  ever  see,"  said  Mrs. 
Grimmage,  "  is  your  poor  dear  uncle.  But  then  he's 
eccentrick — ain't  he  ?  And  he  ain't  the  sort  as  many 
'ud  fancy  for  a  sweetheart.  He  ain't  dash-ey  enough. 
Women  do  like  a  bit  of  Dash.  I  do  myself." 


1 68  The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

At  that  moment  Sacheverell  tapped  at  the  door. 
The  room  adjoined  Legge's. 

"  It  is  over,"  he  said,  gently. 

Mrs.  Grimmage  entered  a  cry.  "  Oh,  sir,  what  do 
you  mean  ?  Whatever  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Anna  put  her  hand  to  her  heart.  She  followed 
Sacheverell  to  the  bed  where  Legge  was  at  rest. 

*'  How  happy  he  looks,"  she  said. 

"  I  never  know'd  he  was  so  handsome,"  sobbed  Mrs. 
Grimmage. 

He  had  the  face  his  wife  knew,  and  was  young 
again. 

The  settlement  of  poor  Legge's  affairs  proved  a  very 
small  matter.  Beyond  his  /ew  books  and  pictures  and 
a  little  plain  furniture  he  had  nothing  in  the  world. 
He  had  always  spent  his  money  as  he  earned  it :  some- 
times he  could  have  spent  rather  more  than  he  earned, 
and  still  lacked  much  which  many  men  would  have 
considered  necessary  to  existence.  His  two  little  girls 
whom  he  kept  at  a  happier  and  more  cheerful  home  in 
the  country  than  he  could  give  them  in  his  lodgings, 
had  all  his  income  save  the  two  pounds  a  week  he  kept 
— unwillingly — for  his  own  use.  He  never  allowed 
himself  to  think  how  he  longed  for  his  children  and 
the  brightness  they  might  have  brought  into  his  life. 
He  only  thought  of  what  was  best  for  them.  They 
were  left  totally  unprovided  for :  the  sale  of  his  effects 
produced,  as  Sacheverell  told  Anna,  two  hundred  pounds. 
As  he  was  the  purchaser,  he  probably  knew.  Lord 
Middlehurst,  out  of  consideration  for  his  services  to  The 
Argus^  paid  his  funeral  expenses  and  the  doctor's  bill ; 
he  also  gave  him  a  short  obituary,  in  which  he  referred 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  169 

very  handsomely  to  his  brilliant  talent  and  excessive 
modesty,  "  which  alone  kept  him  from  that  high  place  in 
the  public  regard"  &c.,  &c.,  &c. 

"  I  will  take  care  of  the  children,"  said  Anna. 

"  You  ? "  said  Sacheverell.  She  seemed  so  very 
young  for  the  burden.  But  she  smiled. 

w  I  am  getting  on  pretty  well,  you  know,"  she  said. 
"  I  am  more  fortunate  in  my  publishers  than  my  poor 
uncle.  I — I  draw  a  little." 

Her  white  face — her  slight  form — it  was  all  so 
childish  and  pathetic.  "  The  artistic  profession  is  the 
hardest  in  the  world  for  a  woman — in  fact,  any  artistic 
profession  is  hard  for  anybody,"  he  said.  "  Art  means 
labour — hard,  ceaseless,  unsatisfying  labour.  Her  ser- 
vice is  work,  and  her  reward — the  strength  for  more 
work." 

"  I  have  drawn  ever  since  I  can  remember,"  said 
Anna  j  "  it  came  to  me  like  speaking.  When  I  was 
old  enough  I  studied  hard.  I  made  up  my  mind  that 
painting  was  to  be  my  work  in  life.  'T?j  no  sin,  you 
know)  to  follow  one's  vocation.  They  called  me  a  fool, 
and  they  said  I  would  starve.  I  did  starve  for  a 
time.  I  could  wish  I  had  starved  a  little  longer.  But 
I  married.  I  forgot  my  work."  She  coloured.  "  I 
soon  remembered  it  again.  I  decided  to  study  quietly 
by  myself  for  a  year  or  two — any  number  of  years,  for 
that  matter — I  did  not  care  how  many,  so  long  as  I 
could  see  hope  at  the  end.  I  was  working  when — 
when  I  came  to  nurse  my  uncle.  I  think  I  must  win 
— perhaps  not  yet,  but  some  day.  Every  failure  will 
only  make  me  stronger  when  I  succeed.  I  am  so  hard 
to  discourage  !  Pain  and  despair  and  heartache — 
they  cast  you  down  for  a  while,  but  afterwards — they 


170  'The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

help  you  to  understand."  It  did  not  seem  at  all  strange 
then  that  she  talked  to  him  so  openly,  but  it  was  very 
wonderful  to  remember  in  later  days. 

Sacheverell  listened  with  almost  painful  interest. 
Her  story  with  its  suggestion  of  a  tragedy  in  little 
was  sad  enough ;  what  he  feared  was  her  mistaken 
confidence  in  her  own  ability  seemed  to  him  even 
sadder.  Genius  is  so  rare,  and  ambition  is  so 
common. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  some  of  your  work,"  he  said, 
at  last. 

"  If  you  can  call  at  my  studio  to-morrow,"  said 
Anna,  laughing,  "  I  will  show  you  my  masterpiece  !  " 
He  did  not  go  immediately,  however,  but  stayed 
an  hour  longer.  They  sat  in  the  window  of  Mrs. 
Grimmage's  drawing-room,  and  talked  very  happily, 
if  inconsequently,  on  many  subjects,  from  Browning 
and  Bach  to  Mazzini  and  Plato.  They  were  very 
cultured,  indeed. 

"  Did  you  see  that  woman  who  passed  just  now  ?  " 
said  Anna,  suddenly. 
"Yes." 

"  She  had  beautiful  hair — Venetian  red." 
"  I  saw  it." 

She  looked  at  him  with  something  like  gratitude. 
The  artistic  sympathy  is  very  subtle — terribly  irre- 
sistible. "  How  lovely,"  she  said,  "  to  be  with  some- 
body who  does  see  things.  I  could  tell  you  the  whole 
history  of  that  woman,"  she  went  on,  "just  from  her 
walk.  She  does  not  care  for  that  tramp — he  doesn't 
understand  her — he  doesn't  even  know  that  her  hair 
is  magnificent.  But  she  wants  to  Belong  to  some- 
body." 


T'he  Sinner's  Comedy. 

"  When  a  man  suspects  that  his  God  is  not  taking 
him  seriously,  he  changes  his  religion,"  said  Sacheve- 
rell ;  "  are  women  less  philosophical  ?  " 

"  Gods  are  so  scarce,"  sighed  Anna  j  "  if  a  woman 
finds  even  a  false  one — she  thinks  herself  fortunate." 

For  the  next  twenty  minutes  they  played  at  dis- 
agreeing. Such  flat  disagreement  v/as  never  heard 
within  those  peaceful  walls.  "  I  shall  have  more  to 
say  on  the  subject  to-morrow,"  said  Sacheverell,  when 
he  left. 

"  I  could  say  miles  at  this  minute,"  said  Anna. 

After  he  had  gone  she  drew  him,  from  memory. 
The  result  was  such  a  miserable  failure  in  her  eyes 
that  she  burnt  it — with  a  refinement  of  cruelty — by 
inches.  Nor  did  she  ever  attempt  to  draw  him  again. 
It  may  be  that  a  suggestion,  a  hint  of  him,  cropped 
out  occasionally  in  the  turn  of  a  head,  in  an  arm,  or 
in  a  look  round  the  brows,  but  that  was  all.  She 
kept  the  Man  to  herself:  he  could  not  be  chopped 
into  illustrations. 

Sacheverell  had  guessed  from  Legge's  remark  that 
Anna  was  none  other  than  the  mysterious  artist  who 
looked  like  Vittoria  Colonna.  It  was  strange  that  he 
should  have  met  her — very  strange.  Having  met  her, 
he  was  quite  certain  that  the  love  had  been  all  on 
Sir  Richard's  side :  that  the  story  was  all  on  Sir 
Richard's  side.  That  such  a  woman  could  care  for 
such  a  man  was  impossible.  It  was  easy  to  under- 
stand, however,  why  Mrs.  Prentice  might  care  for 
him.  He  had  given  very  little  thought  to  Emily 
since  the  evening  she  had  played  in  the  church.  He 
remembered  her  as  one  remembers  some  certain  night 


172  T'he  Sinner's  Comedy. 

in  June — that  it  was  perfect  for  June — that  a  year  of 
such  would  be  unhealthy.  He  had  mistaken  la  grande 
passion  for  passion.  It  consoled  him  to  call  to  mind 
that  Marcus  Aurelius  had  also  fallen  into  some  fits  of 
love,  "  but  was  soon  cured."  Emily's  face  came  upon 
him — it  was  less  lovely  than  Anna's,  more  bewitching, 
more  human,  less  spiritual.  He  thought  he  had  read 
her  character  very  truly  at  first  sight.  She  was  Circe. 
Reconsidering  his  decision,  however,  at  a  distance  of 
four  weeks  and  sixty  miles,  he  saw  that  there  were 
weak  points  in  the  Circe  theory.  Emily  was  the 
Popian — merely  Popian — coquette  :  perhaps  too  fond 
of  admiration  :  decidedly  weak.  Pretty  ?  yes,  if  one 
admired  the  opal — set  in  brilliants.  Her  hair  always 
smelt  of  violets.  (Scent  got  into  one's  brains.)  There 
was  none  of  that  mincing  sensuality  about  Anna. 

When  he  saw  her  at  her  studio  the  next  day,  she 
was  very  quiet  and  grave.  The  only  canvas  in  the 
room  had  its  face  to  the  wall. 

"  I  am  very  nervous  about  showing  it  to  you,"  she 
said  j  "  no  one  else  has  seen  it.  I  am  so  afraid  you 
will  think  it  is  rubbish.  If  you  do,"  she  added,  "  I 
shall  cut  it  up — and  start  afresh." 

"  Even  if  I  think,"  he  said,  awkwardly,  <{  that  you 
have  hardly  had  experience  enough  yet — you  see,  you 
are  very  young " 

He  felt  he  could  never  flatter  her — never  pay  her 
mere  formal  compliments.  If  her  work  were  bad,  he 
would  have  to  say  so. 

She  went  slowly  towards  the  canvas.  He  was 
anxious  himself,  and  could  not  understand  the  anxiety. 
It  was  a  new  sensation.  He  dreaded  to  see  her 
failure ;  the  suspense  was  intolerable. 


T'he  Sinners  Comedy.  173 

"  Is  the  light  good  ?  "  he  began. 

"Excellent,"  said  Anna.  Neither  of  them  knew 
what  they  were  saying.  "  There,"  she  said,  placing 
the  picture  on  the  easel.  "  The  subject  is  *  The 
Flight  of  Pompilia."'  She  quoted  Browning's  lines 
very  softly — half-unconsciously  : — 

"  Between  midnight  and  morn 
•  «... 

Began  a  whiteness  in  the  distance,  waxed 
Whiter  and  whiter,  near  grew  and  more  near, 
Till  it  was  she  ;  there  did  Pompilia  come  ; 
The  white  I  saw  shine  through  her  was  her  soul's, 
Certainly,  for  the  body  was  one  black, 
Black  from  head  down  to  foot." 

"  You  were  right  to  work,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"  Shall  I  go  on — working  ?  " 

"  By  all  means." 

"  That  is  all  I  want  to  know,"  said  Anna. 

"  There  are  many  things  I  should  like  to  say,"  said 
Sacheverell,  "  You  have  great  power.  .  .  .  You  know 
what  I  think — what  I  must  think." 

She  blushed  and  smiled. 

"  I  have  worked  very  hard,"  she  said.  "  If  you 
could  see  the  yards  of  canvas  I  have  burnt  !  I  have 
been  painting  and  burning  ever  since  I  was  six.  .  .  . 
So  you  like  it  ?  Of  course,  it  is  not  quite  finished. 
I  work  very  slowly.  Lately  I  have  accomplished  so 
little — so  very  little.  The  illustrations  take  all  my 
time,  and  when  they  are  done  I  am  too  tired  to 
paint." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  give  up  the  illustrating  ?  ** 

She  smiled  at  him  sadly.  "  I  must  keep  body  and 
soul  together,  and — I  have  some  one  dependent  on 


174  *&&  Sinner's  Comedy. 

me."  This  was  the  first  reference  she  had  ever  made 
to  her  husband.  Sacheverell  felt  at  once,  by  a  sort 
of  intuition,  that  the  some  one  else  was  the  always- 
absent,  always-present  Christian.  "  I  made  one  great 
mistake  in  my  life,"  she  said,  gravely.  "  Some  day  I 
may  tell  you  about  it."  Then  they  talked  of  other 
things. 

"  I  know — about  your  book,"  said  Anna,  at  last : 
"  my  uncle  told  me.  Why  won't  you  finish  it  ?  " 

"That  is  nothing  in  the  world,"  he  said,  briefly. 
"  Why  did  Legge  tell  you  ?  " 

"  One  day,  when  he  was  ill,  I  went  to  his  desk — I 
was  the  only  one  he  allowed  to  touch  his  papers — and 
I  found  a  manuscript.  I  was  unhappy  at  the  time, 
but  I  read  it,  and  somehow,  my  despair  went  away. 
I  felt  I  might  yet  do  something  with  my  life.  I 
asked  who  wrote  it.  Then  he  told  me  it  was  yours, 
that  it  belonged  to  your  book,  and  how  you  put  it 
aside  when  your  sister — when  you  became  a  rector — 
somewhere." 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  with  an  attempt  at  a  laugh,  "  I, 
too,  have  some  one  dependent  on  me,  and  I — like  you 
— work  slowly.  Still,  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  write  now, 
when  I  feel  in  the  mood.  I  have  a  certain  amount  of 
leisure.  Just  now  I  am  supposed  to  be  resting.  I 
have  had  rather  a  hard  year,  but  next  year  may  not 
bring  so  much  care,  and  then " 

"  But — you  are  not  happy,"  she  said. 

u  Perhaps  not.  I  don't  think  that  matters.  I  will 
finish  my  work  some  day.  I  shall  finish  it  for  you." 

"  Promise  me,"  said  Anna. 

c<  I  promise." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  say  good-bye. 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  175 

"  Not  that  hand,"  he  said,  "  the  other.  You  give 
your  right  hand  to  every  one." 

The  extraordinary  thing  was  that  this  did  not  seem 
extraordinary  to  either  of  them.  They  had  seen  a 
great  deal  of  each  other — though  the  length  of  their 
friendship  could  be  reckoned  by  days. 


VII. 

THAT  night,  Sacheverell  received  a  letter  from  his 
sister. 

"My  DEAR  PETER,"  it  ran — "As  it  is  so  much 
more  agreeable  here  than  it  is  in  town  or  at  home 
just  at  present,  Carlotta  Insists  on  my  remaining 
another  fortnight.  I  think  this  is  a  splendid  oppor- 
tunity to  have  the  dining-room  whitewashed  and  the 
drawing-room  papered.  The  paint  in  my  bedroom, 
too,  would  be  none  the  worse  for  a  fresh  coat.  As 
you  are  in  town,  perhaps  you  had  better  go  straight 
on  to  Tenchester  and  remain  there  to  look  after  the 
workmen.  They  need  incessant  watching.  Get 
somebody  to  inspect  the  drains.  I  am  so  dreadfully 
afraid  of  typhoid — one  hears  such  awful  things — and 
now  Frank  is  coming  home  I  want  to  be  quite  sure 
that  the  house  is  healthy.  I  have  been  thinking  that 
you  might  as  well  move  into  the  back  bedroom  and  let 
him  have  yours.  There  is  such  a  nice  wall  there  to 
hang  his  trophies  on.  We  shall  never  get  them  all 
into  the  drawing-room.  Would  you  like  the  smaller 
lion's  skin  for  your  study  ?  It  is  so  dark  there  that 
no  one  will  be  able  to  see  that  it  is  torn. 

"Mrs.  Prentice  is  flirting  desperately  with  Sir 
Richard.  She  will,  no  doubt,  marry  him.  They 
are  pretty  certain  to  ask  us  to  St.  Simon's-in-the- 

Close.     She  and  I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  each  other 

176 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  177 

lately.  All  the  Havilands  are  useful  people  to  know. 
Lord  Middlehurst  has  a  tremendous  lot  of  influence. 
He  might  do  something  for  one  of  the  boys.  I  want 
Lionel  to  get  a  secretaryship  ;  he  has  his  father's 
charm  of  manner.  Darling  Percy  !  But  it  does  not 
do  to  think  of  him.  By  the  bye,  don't  forget  to  have 
all  the  lamps  thoroughly  overhauled. 

"Can  you  make  up  a  parcel  of  your  old  clothes 
(zm^fer-things,  of  course)  and  send  them  to  me  here  ? 
I  have  promised  them  to  the  under-gardener.  He  is 
so  grateful  to  me,  poor  creature.  I  am  sure  the  little 
change  down  here  did  you  good.  You  don't  rest 
sufficiently.  I  cannot  get  you  to  be  idle.  Why  you 
should  take  all  this  trouble  about  that  extraordinary 
Cunningham  Legge  I  cannot  imagine.  Such  waste 
of  time,  too,  for  a  man  with  your  responsibilities. 
Your  friends  (particularly  the  nobodies  and  those  who 
have  nothing  on  earth  to  do)  seem  to  think  that  you 
have  nothing  to  do  but  to  fetch  and  carry  for  them. 
I  wonder  why  you  put  up  with  it.  /  would  not  for 
one  moment. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  worry  you,  but  I  think  you  ought 
to  stir  yourself  about  c  The  Metaphysic  of  Religion.' 
By  the  time  you  have  finished  it  all  your  ideas  v/ill 
be  old-fashioned.  You  don't  seem  to  have  any  ambi- 
tion. I  am  quite  sick  of  telling  people  that  you  hope 
to  publish  it  soon.  I  am  sure  they  think  it  will  end 
like  that  tiresome  old  Casaubon's  'Key  to  all  the 
Mythologies.'  Mr.  Vallence  hinted  something  of  the 
sort  at  lunch  to-day.  Why  do  you  trouble  with  all 
these  committee  meetings  and  things  ?  Other  Deans 
don't  do  it.  I  was  trying  to  remember  yesterday  how 
many  people  you  buried  last  year.  I  really  think  you 
13 


178  The  Sinners  Comedy. 

might  drop  the  burying.  It  means  a  whole  afternoon 
every  time.  When  do  those  awful  Divinity  students 
begin  work  ?  It  seems  to  me  you  take  far  too  great 
pains  with  them.  They  are  not  worth  it.  Still,  as 
they  pay  very  well,  you  can't  give  them  up  just  at 
present. 

"If  Lord  Middlehurst  puts  Lionel  up  for  the 
yunior  Devonshire^  the  entrance  fee  won't  be  more 
than  fifty.  I  forget  the  exact  amount — but  it  will  be 
such  a  good  thing  for  him.  In  one  way  it  is  rather 
an  awkward  expense  just  now.  I  was  rather  hoping 
that  you  and  I  could  manage  a  little  run  to  Bellagio 
later  on.  I  need  a  rest  fully  as  much  as  you  do. 
There's  the  dinner-gong. 

"  Your  affectionate  sister, 

"  E.  MOLLE. 

a  P.S. — I  want  some  money  for  a  few  bills.  Better 
send  a  blank  cheque." 

He  read  this  through  and  kughed  j  it  reminded 
him  of  so  many  others  in  the  same  strain.  At  one 
time  it  would  have  filled  him  with  bitterness,  but  now 
— could  he  not  see  Anna  on  the  morrow  ?  He  sat 
down  to  write :  he  had  a  few  ideas.  This  was  the 
first : — Thoughts^  when  the  mind  is  thrall  to  some  strong 
emotion^  come  in  a  sort  of  rhythm :  it  may  be  said  that  we 
think  in  a  rough  kind  of  blank  verse.  He  paused,  then 
wrote  rapidly  on  another  slip  of  paper : — 

She  seemed  a  flower — heiress  to  all  the  beauty, 
All  the  grace  and  fragrance  of  each  flower 
Sprung  since  the  world  began. 

He  read  it  critically, — frowned, — smiled.     It  was,  at 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  179 

least,  spontaneous  j  he  could  grant  that.  He  read  it 
again — She  seemed.  Ah !  why  had  the  word  seem 
occurred  to  him  ?  There  was  an  example  of  the 
mind  unconsciously  hedging.  He  wanted  the  Truth, 
not  the  Semblance.  It  might  be  that  the  real  Anna 
was  plain-featured  and  ordinary:  a  little,  dumpish 
woman:  sallow,  somewhat  shrewish.  Oh,  that  a 
man's  eyes  should  be  such  traitors  to  his  per- 
ception !  He  remembered  that  he  had  suffered  the 
same  harassing  doubts  in  the  case  of  Mrs.  Prentice. 
" Adgnosco  veteris  vestigia  flammee"  he  murmured, 
and  passed  a  sleepless  night. 

On  the  morrow,  when  he  called  at  the  Studio  he 
made  no  excuse  for  his  visit.  He  went  as  a  matter  of 
course  j  it  seemed,  indeed,  the  only  thing  to  do. 

As  for  Anna — she  expected  him,  and  wore  a  useless 
but  adorable  silk  pinafore.  The  colour  was  pink :  it 
pleased  him  to  call  it  rose-jacynth.  He  decided,  for 
all  time,  that  she  was  lovely.  And  he  was  not 
mistaken. 


VIII. 

AFTER  Sacheverell  had  left  the  Vallences',  Emily's 
whole  manner  changed.  Her  gaiety  was  astonishing. 
To  Carlotta's  dispassionate  mind  it  seemed  rather 
hysterical  j  her  laugh  was  so  much  merrier  than  her 
eyes  j  her  wit  had  the  saltness  of  tears.  Carlotta 
could  not  think  she  was  unhappy.  Every  circum- 
stance forbade  the  suspicion.  As  for  Emily  herself, 
she  tried  to  believe — and  to  a  certain  extent  succeeded 
in  believing — that  she  was  supremely  contented.  To 
be  pretty,  to  be  rich,  to  have  a  devoted  lover — could 
she  ask  for  more  ?  To  Go  as  much  as  one  could,  and 
Think  as  little  as  one  might,  was  the  secret  of  hap- 
piness. 

"  Thought  should  be  unconscious,"  said  Sir  Richard ; 
"  it  is  a  natural  process  like  digestion." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  sighed  Emily. 

She  was  too  impressionable,  too  quick  with  her 
sympathy  and  too  imaginative  to  be  rigidly  faithful  to 
any  one  creed  or  any  one  creature.  She  could  weave 
fairy  garments  for  the  ugliest  scarecrow ;  if  Ferdinand 
were  absent  she  would  find  something  to  adore  in  the 
present  Caliban.  Was  Sacheverell  right,  she  won- 
dered, was  work  and  suffering  the  good  part ;  or  was 
Sir  Richard — with  his  laws  of  Nature,  and  that 
Nature  a  smiling  goddess — right  ? 

"At  one  time,"  said  Carlotta  to  her  one  day, 
"I  thought  you  liked  the  Dean.  He  has  not  such 

180 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  181 

charming    manners    as    Sir    Richard,   but   one    can 
hardly  compare  them." 

" Hyperion  to  a  Satyr"  said  Emily. 

"  What !  "     Carlotta's  eyes  opened  wide. 

"I — I  did  not  mean  Sir  Richard  by  Hyperion" 

"  Emily,  I'm  afraid  you  are  fickle." 

«  Perhaps  I  am." 

"  But  if  you  liked  the  Dean " 

"  I  didn't  exactly  like  him.     I  might  have,  but 

you  see,  I  know  quite  well  he  despises  me." 

«  How  could  he  ?  " 

Emily  remembered  the  last  look  he  gave  her. 
"  Well,  I  suppose  he  is  more  sorry  for  me  than  any- 
thing. It  was  so  unpleasant,  you  know — he  happened 
to  come  into  the  music-room  when  that  stupid  Richard 
was  kissing  my  hand.  I  couldn't  explain  that  it 
really  wasn't  my  fault.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever 
see  him  again.  I  don't  care  a  bit — only — it  isn't  nice 
to  know  that  he  has  got  quite  a  wrong  impression  of 
me." 

"  One  of  these  days,"  said  Carlotta,  "  your  flirting 
will  bring  you  unhappiness.  Sir  Richard  is  not  a  man 
who  will  stand  nonsense." 

"  Don't  frighten  me,"  said  Emily,  who  was  trem- 
bling already.  Carlotta's  words  only  confirmed  her 
own  fear. 

"Do  you  love  him?  "  said  Carlotta. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Emily.  "  I  suppose  I  do — in 
a  way.  I  am  afraid  of  him.  He  is  so  determined." 

"  I  wish  you  had  never  met  him  !  "  said  Carlotta, 
prime  instigator  of  their  meetings. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Emily,  with  a  sort  of  whimper. 

<c  Have  you  promised  to  marry  him  ?  " 


1 82  The  Sinners  Comedy. 

"  He  thinks  I  have.  It  comes  to  the  same  thing. 
Oh  dear  ! " 

u  My  dear  Emily,  this  is  too  ridiculous." 

"It's  dreadful.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  was  never 
so  worried  in  my  life.  We  are  going  to  Egypt. 
Egypt  is  newer  than  Paris.  And  a  quiet  wedding — 
just  in  my  going-away  dress.  Do  you  think  that  a 
pale  shade  of  grey  trimmed  with  sable  tails " 

"  Why  can't  you  be  honest  and  admit  that  you  are 
in  love  with  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  is  very  nice.  You  should  hear  him  read 
Herrick.  He  feels  every  word  of  it,  and  it  is  not  as 
though  he  were  a  man  who  had  been  in  love  a  hundred 
times.  I  am  the  only  one.  Just  think — out  of  all 
the  women  he  has  met.  We  must  be  happy." 

"  You  can't  command  the  future,"  said  Carlotta, 
stonily. 

"  Let  me  think  I  can,"  said  Emily,  ct  that's  half 
the  battle,"  and  (she  was  spending  a  few  days  with 
Carlotta)  she  went  out  of  the  room  singing. 

Nevertheless  when  she  found  herself  in  her  own 
bedroom,  with  the  door  locked,  she  cried.  She  herself 
could  have  given  no  cause  for  her  tears  :  that  was  the 
worst  of  it.  It  was  an  unsatisfactory  misery  in  every 
sense  —  without  beginning,  or  middle,  or  end,  or 
reason,  or  hope.  She  paused  once  in  her  weeping  to 
wonder  what  she  could  wear  down  to  dinner.  There 
was  the  velvet  with  point  de  Flandres.  Sacheverell 
hated  velvet,  but  Sacheverell  was  not  there  to  see. 
The  sobbing  continued.  To  be  loved  was  better  than 
loving — much  better.  She  would  marry  Sir  Richard, 

who  worshipped  her,  and  forget There  was  no 

one  to  forget. 


'The  Sinners  Comedy.  183 

At  dinner  that  evening  she  was  dazzling.  Sir 
Richard  was  there. 

In  the  drawing-room,  afterwards,  Mrs.  Molle  and 
Carlotta  sat  by  the  fireplace  and  discussed  bronchitis. 
Digby  was  confined  to  his  room  with  neuralgia — and 
an  adverse  criticism.  Sir  Richard  saw  his  chance. 
There  was  a  window-seat  some  distance  from  the  fire. 
Would  Emily  sit  there  and  watch  the  stars  ?  He 
knew  a  little  about  astronomy. 

"  This  is  our  last  night  here — for  some  time,"  he 
said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  it  is  never  so  nice  at  Hurst 
Place." 

"This  is  certainly  very  pleasant,"  said  Emily. 
"  What  is  the  name  of  that  star  ?  " 

"  Do  you  remember  what  you  promised  ?  " 

"  I  have  promised  ever  so  many  things,  haven't  I  ? 
I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  keep  some  of  them." 

" You  must  keep  one" 

"  That  wasn't  a  promise — exactly.  And  I  forget. 
What  was  it  about  ?  " 

"  You  do  not  forget." 

"  Do  take  care !  They  will  see  you.  You  are 
hurting  my  hand.  I  suppose  I  do  remember.  How 
you  tease  !  Besides — I  was  in  fun." 

"  I  was  not." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  marry  me." 

"Marriage  is  so  dull,  Richard.  There  would  be 
no  more  Herrick.  .  .  .  We  are  so  happy  as  we  are. 
Why  spoil  it  ?  Men  are  never  satisfied  !  " 

"Yes,  they  are.  If  it  were  not  for  that  Molle 
person  and  Carlotta  !  Shall  we  ever  be  alone  together 
— ever  able  to  talk  except  five  yards  apart,  with  our 


184  *fhe  Sinner's  Comedy. 

eyes  on  the  door  or  some  old  woman  ?  I  am  sick  of 
it.  This  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  drives  people  into 
matrimony.  Don't  laugh  at  me — it  is.  Emily,  meet 
me  in  town  on  Monday.  Let  us  be  married  quietly 
— by  special  license.  We  won't  tell  any  one  about  it. 
You  need  only  regard  it  as  a  form  of  engagement — if 
you  like.  I  only  want  to  know  that  you  belong  to 
me — that  whatever  happens,  you  are  my  wife.  Is 
that  much  to  ask — when  I  love  you  as  I  do  ?  " 

"  Wouldn't  it  seem  odd  ?  What  would  people 
say  ?  "  The  idea,  however,  appealed  to  her.  Though 
it  spelt  a  marriage  certificate,  it  sounded  like  throwing 
her  cap  over  the  windmill.  Irresistible  witchcraft ! 
Her  eyes  sparkled. 

"What  fun!  "  she  said. 

Everything,  he  saw,  depended  on  his  self-restraint. 
A  movement,  an  expression,  a  word  too  much  or  too 
little,  and  his  case  would  be  ruined.  That  she  was  a 
nice  problem  in  dip'omatics  was  not  the  least  consider- 
able .of  her  fascinations:  he  could  never  be  sure  of 
her.  She  was  not  a  woman  one  could  woo  dozing. 
He  looked  round.  Mrs.  Molle  and  Carlotta  had  gone 
into  the  little  boudoir  which  led  off  from  the  drawing- 
room.  He  could  hear  their  voices  :  they  were  search- 
ing for  a  mislaid  letter.  Swiftly  and  boldly  he  caught 
Emily  in  his  arms  and — did  not  kiss  her.  He  just 
put  his  lips  to  her  ear  and  said,  "  You  are  so  beauti- 
ful ! "  Badly  managed,  the  thing  would  have  been  a 
hug.  Unspeakable  vulgarity  !  As  he  did  it,  how- 
ever, it  was  a  movement  of  much  grace  indicative  of 
passion. 

Emily  said  nothing. 

"Dearest,  you  will  come  on  Monday  ?  w 


T'he  Sinner's  Comedy.  185 

She  lifted  up  her  face  to  say  "  No.  It  somehow 
got  mixed  on  the  way  with  a  "  Yes "  from  Sir  Richard. 
The  combination  was  no  syllable. 

They  were  married,  however,  by  a  Bishop,  assisted 
by  an  Archdeacon.  Every  one  agreed  that  it  was  even 
grander  than  her  first  wedding. 


IX. 

FOR  Sacheverell  the  sun  had  not  set  for  a  fortnight ; 
for  Anna,  there  had  been  magic  in  the  moon.  They 
had  seen  each  other  every  day :  they  had  been  for 
several  strolls  into  the  country.  She  always  walked 
with  him  to  his  hotel  or  till  they  were  in  sight  of  it, 
and  he  invariably  walked  back  with  her  again  to  her 
studio.  The  childishness  of  the  performance  caused 
them  endless  merriment.  They  also  read  together: 
once  or  twice  they  managed  to  finish  a  whole  para- 
graph. For  some  reason,  however,  she  never  touched 
her  picture.  "  I  can  always  paint,"  she  said  ;  "  I  have 
been  painting  all  my  life.  I  have  not  always  had  you 
— nor  can  I  have  you  always."  He  had  told  her  that 
he  loved  her  j  she  had  made  answer  that  men  were 
very  fickle :  that  Love  was  the  Eternal  Lie,  and  the 
man  who  told  it  the  prettiest  was  the  best  poet.  She, 
herself,  was  not,  as  the  phrase  goes,  in  love  with  him, 
but  she  was  under  his  influence.  Sacheverell's  dreamy, 
speculative  mind  was  especially  delightful  to  her,  a 
woman  who  had  never  found  leisure  for  dreaming,  and 
to  whom  the  high  sphere  of  speculative  thought  was 
an  undiscovered  country.  There  was  a  gentleness, 
too,  in  his  character,  a  resignation  to  the  will  of  God 
— or  of  anybody — which  seemed  divinely  meek  to  her 
more  rebellious  nature.  When  she  told  him  the  long 
story  of  her  short  life,  of  her  husband,  of  Kilcoursie, 
she  forgot  all  her  past  unhappiness  in  the  fact  that  he, 
in  the  Present,  was  listening  and  understanding. 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  187 

"  Talking  to  you,"  she  said  to  him,  "  is  only  think- 
ing to  myself — made  easier." 

That  evening  he  was  to  meet  Mrs.  Molle  at  Pad- 
dington,  whence  they  would  leave  for  Tenchester. 
He  could  not  see  Anna  for  at  least  ten  days. 

"It  will  be  strange  to-morrow  and  to-morrow," 
she  said,  "  not  to  have  you  with  me." 

"  And  I "  said  Sacheverell. 

"  Will  you  miss  me  ? " 

"You  know  I  will." 

"  I  am  so  glad.  ...  I  ought  not — it's  hateful — but 
I  want  you — to  be  miserable."  She  opened  a  card- 
board box  which  stood  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  and 
produced  an  unconsidered  trifle  in  the  shape  of  some 
ribbons  and  feathers.  She  put  it  on  her  head,  and  in 
so  doing  managed  to  brush  some  tears  from  her  eye- 
lashes. 

"  Do  you  like  my  new  hat  ?  "  she  said.  This  was 
her  way  of  changing  the  subject. 

"  Is  that  bow  meant  to  stick  up  ?  " 

"  Of  course ;  flat  bows  are  hideous.  Nothing  would 
induce  me  to  alter  it.  Nothing.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you 
will  like  it  better  when  you  get  used  to  it." 

«  Perhaps." 

"  Why  don't  you  like  it  now  ?  " 

« I  do,"  he  said. 

She  smiled  with  happiness.  "  I  love  nice  clothes. 
I  could  live  in  a  garret  and  sleep  on  the  floor  and  eat 
bread  and  apples,  or  bread  without  the  apples — but  I 
must  have  pretty  gowns." 

<c  You  are  very  beautiful  in  anything,"  he  said. 

"If  you  think  so,"  she  answered,  as  gravely,  "it 
will  make  me  beautiful !  w 


1 88  The  Sinners  Comedy. 

"  Anna,"  he  said,  quickly,  "  if  we  could  be  together 
always  ! " 

"  Together — always,"  she  repeated. 

"Just  think  of  it — you  with  your  painting  and  me 
— who  knows  ?  I  might  finish  my  book.  We  might 
go  to  Mount  Athos." 

"  On  Mount  Athos,"  said  Anna,  "  there  would  be 
no  philosophy  —  but  a  fiddle  and  some  picturesque 
rags." 

"  I  am  afraid  we  must  not  drop  philosophy,"  he  said. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Anna,  "  we  must  drop  Mount 
Athos  and  take  an  attic.  It  would  have  to  be  an  attic 
— we  should  be  so  poor.  But  we  would  work  and 
work  and  work.  Between  us  we  might  "Accomplish 
something  !  Would  the  days  ever  be  long  enough  ? 
I  would  do  the  cooking.  I  can  make  an  omelette  and 
a  beef-steak  pie — but  I  have  forgotten  most  of  the  pie. 
Do  you  mind  ?  " 

He  laughed.  "Should  we  be  able  to  afford  beef- 
steak ? " 

"  We  should  be  called  The  Dean  and  his  minx," 
said  Anna.  "  What  would  Eleanor  say  ?  " 

"Suppose  we  went  down  and  resigned  the  Deanery 
together,"  he  suggested.  "  But  are  you — crying  ?  " 

"  No,  it  is  only  the  light — it  is  a  little  strong  for 
my  eyes.  I — I  have  been  using  them  too  much 
lately.  Ten  whole  days  to  wait — before  I  can  see 
you  again.  It  seems  such  a  long  time.  So  many 
things  can  happen  in  ten  days.  ...  I  will  work  at 
the  picture,  but — sometimes  I  think  it  will  never  be 
finished.  Whenever  I  see  hope  something  happens. 
I — I  heard  to-day,"  she  went  on,  "  from  my  husband. 
He  is  in  money  difficulties  again.  The  thirty  pounds 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  189 

I  sent  him  to  pay  some  bills  with  he  has  used  for 
something  else.  So  he  wants  another  thirty.  That 
means  I  must  accept  Stock's  offer  for  the  black  and 
whites.  I  am  getting  so  tired — and  worried.  I  am 
strong  really — very  strong.  I  ought  to  be  able  to  work 
nine  hours  a  day — but  I  can't." 

"  And  I  can  do  nothing  to  help  you  ?  "  said  Sache- 
verell.  "Must  I  see  you  toiling  like  this  for  that 
man  ?  Am  I  powerless  ?  a  log  ?  a  stone  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  all  right,"  she  said,  "  if  you  write  to  me 
every  day.  You  have  given  me  so  much  courage  that 
nothing  seems  too  hard  for  me." 

Their  farewell  was  in  silence. 

Her  letters  for  the  next  week  were  full  of  humour 
— of  hope — of  plans  for  the  future.  "Seventy-two 
more  hours  and  then  I  shall  see  you.  I  am  so  glad, 
that  I  feel  almost  afraid  to  think  of  it."  So  she  wrote 
in  the  morning.  That  same  night  she  sent  another 
note  to  say  she  had  received  word  that  her  husband 
was  lying  seriously  ill — at  the  point  of  death — alone 
in  his  lodgings.  "  I  must  go  to  him,"  she  wound  up. 
"  I  will  do  what  I  can.  He  has  no  friend  in  the  world. 
The  very  sight  of  him  stifles  me.  I  would  sooner 
house  with  a  rattlesnake  than  go  near  him.  But  he  is 
ill.  I  have  no  choice  in  the  matter." 

Sacheverell,  who  knew  the  horrors  of  her  married 
life  as  no  one  else  knew  them,  read  her  letter  and  felt 
it  was  her  death  warrant.  He  was  staring  at  it  when 
Eleanor  rushed  into  the  study  waving  the  Pall  Mall 
Gazette. 

"The  Bishop  of  Gaunt  is  dead,"  she  panted,  and 
looked  the  rest.  He  neither  heard  nor  saw  her. 


190  The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

"  George  is  not  so  ill  as  I  expected,"  Anna  next 
wrote  j  "  he  is  certainly  weak,  but  there  is  nothing 
really  serious  the  matter  with  him.  I  cannot  help 
thinking — well,  perhaps  you  can  guess.  Still,  as  I 
am  here,  I  will  not  leave  him  till  he  is  convalescent. 
I  am  not  feeling  very  well.  My  eyes  pain  me.  I  am 
obliged  to  work  at  night  when  he  is  asleep.  Of 
course,  it  is  a  strain.  I  hope  to  be  out  of"  the  house 
on  Saturday."  The  note  was  dated  Thursday.  On 
Sunday  morning  Sacheverell  received  the  following : — 

**  14,  CARBURY  STREET, 

"TOTTENHAM  COURT  ROAD. 
"  DEAR  SIR, — My  wife  desires  me  to  say  that  she 
has  been  unable  to  finish  the  drawings  she  promised 
you.     She  is  not  well  enough  to  write  herself,  but 
she  hopes  to  be  able  to  do  so  in  a  few  days. 
w  Yours  very  truly, 

"GEORGE  CHRISTIAN." 

During  the  four  months  that  followed — months  of 
such  dull  madness  that  it  seemed  sanity — Sacheverell 
managed  to  hear  both  directly  and  indirectly  how  she 
was.  Not  that  inquiries  were  necessary — he  knew  by 
a  strange  instinct  her  good  days  and  her  bad  days. 
He  also  knew  that  she  would  never  recover. 

"  At  one  time  you  thought  you  would  like  to  be 
a  Bishop,"  said  Eleanor  j  "  now  you  have  got  your 
wish  you  don't  seem  to  care  a  bit." 

"  I  believe  I  am  called  a  Bishop,"  he  answered, 
with  a  strange  smile.  "  Poor  Doddridge  !  " 

Doddridge  was  his  predecessor. 


X. 

ANNA  wrote  to  him  at  last  to  come  and  see  her. 

The  day  was  dim :  rain  seemed  to  be  falling, 
though  it  left  no  trace  on  the  damp  road  and  pave- 
ments. Carbury  Street — at  best  a  cheerless  row  of 
unhomelike  dwellings — had  to  Sacheverell's  over- 
wrought mind  a  terribly  ominous  gloom.  In 
Number  14,  one  light  was  burning  on  the  second 
floor  j  he  guessed  it  was  Anna's  sitting-room.  He 
walked  up  the  steps  slowly — with  no  gladness,  no 
hope,  only  a  weight  at  his  heart.  A  dull  little  maid- 
servant ushered  him  up  the  stairs  j  he  gave  his  name 
in  a  voice  he  did  not  recognise ;  the  servant  girl 
disappeared  behind  a  portiere^  came  out  again  and  left 
him.  As  the  door  closed,  the  portiere  moved  and 
Anna  stood  before  him. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said,  smiling,  "  well  ?  " 
Sacheverell  put  out  his  hand  and  just  touched  her. 
She  was  not  a  Spirit.  She  wore  the  dress  he  had 
last  seen  her  in — one  he  knew  well — a  black  garment 
of  very  ordinary  make,  threadbare  but  exquisitely 
neat.  Her  eyes  were  large,  and  shone  with  unearthly 
brightness  ;  her  face  had  a  white  radiance  which  was 
neither  deathlike  nor  human.  The  beauty  of  her 
countenance  made  him  dumb  j  he  felt  she  had  seen 
a  glory  he  knew  not  of — nor  guessed.  She  led  him 
into  an  inner  room — a  tiny  room  lit  by  a  flaring  oil- 

•M 


192  The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

lamp,  badly  trimmed  and  smelling  of  paraffin.  Again 
they  faced  each  other. 

"  I  cannot  see  you  very  well,"  said  Anna,  at  last, 
"  but  you  are  the  same — a  little  thinner — but  the 
same  Is  it  the  light  on  your  hair  or — is  it  grey  ?  How 
I  wish  I  could  see  you  better.  I  have  lived  for  this." 

"  Am  I  granite  ?  "  wondered  Sacheverell,  "  am  I 
human  ?  "  But  he  said  nothing. 

"  Tell  me  about  you"  said  Anna ;  "  tell  me  about 
your  Palace.  Have  you  a  nice,  big  study — with  a 
large  window  and  long  shelves  for  your  books  ? 
Does  it  open  on  to  the  garden  ?  " 

"Oh,  my  dearest,"  said  Sacheverell,  "have  you 
been  well  taken  care  of?  Have  you  everything  you 
wish  ?  I  want  to  know — and  I  don't  seem  able " 

She  laughed,  and  took  his  hand.  "  I  thought  it  was 
all  ended  twice.  George  was  very  frightened — he 
soon  loses  his  nerve — but,  you  see,  I  am  here."  She 
bent  over  him,  and  he  thought  she  kissed  his  forehead. 
"  When  can  we  have  one  of  our  old  walks  together  ? 
I  cannot  go  far  yet.  Not  more  than  two  miles " 

"  Two  miles  !     My  dearest " 

"  Don't  you  believe  me  ?  I  can — I  am  sure  I 
could — with  you." 

"  No,"  he  stammered,  "  no — not  yet.  The  weather 
— the  weather  is  not  bright  enough.  You  must  rest 
a  little  longer.  Perhaps  in  March." 

Her  eyes  looked  far  away :  she  seemed  a  little 
disappointed.  "  In  March,"  she  repeated  ;  "  but  it  is 
only  February,  now.  In  March  !  " 

"  Anna,"  he  said,  "  I  have  known — I  have  always 
known — when  you  were  suffering.  Where  is  Chris- 
tian ?  Does  he  take  care  of  you  ?  " 


The  Sinner's  Comedy.  193 

"  He  thinks  he  is  being  very  kind,"  she  said  j  a  he 
means  to  be,  at  any  rate." 

"I  will  forgive  him  everything,"  said  Sacheverell, 
"  if  he  takes  care  of  you." 

"  Don't  you  see,"  she  said, "  don't  you  understand — 
that  his  care  is  what  is  killing  me  ?  That  it  has 
killed  me  ?  I  feel  as  though  I  were  in  prison.  I 
cannot  tell  him  so.  I  cannot  tell  the  doctors  so. 
Besides,  I  am  too  weak  to  be  moved.  Mine  was  the 
mistake.  I  should  not  have  returned  to  him.  But  I 
could  not  let  him  die.  The  very  sight  of  him,"  she 
said  again,  "  kills  me." 

" I  know — I  know,  I  knew"  he  said. 

"  Don't  let  us  talk  of  it.  In  March — perhaps 
something  will  happen  in  March.  You  said  March, 
didn't  you  ?  I  am  supposed  to  be  suffering  from  a 
sort  of  overwork.  I  shall  never  finish  c  Pompilia ' 
now.  But  tell  me  about  you." 

"  How  are  your  money  matters  ?  "  he  said,  abruptly. 
The  question  was  wrung  from  him.  He  looked 
round  the  shabby,  cold  room,  and  hated  himself  and 
his  palace. 

"  In  a  few  weeks  I  shall  be  in  the  poorhouse,"  said 
Anna,  laughing.  "A  new  experience!  It  will  all 
be  useful  to  my  work.  Local  colour  !  " 

"  Anna,"  he  said,  desperately,  "  you  must  let 
me " 

"  I  am  only  in  fun,  of  course,"  she  said.  "  If  I 
wanted  anything,  I  would  tell  you.  You  know  I 
would.  But  I  shall  soon  be  well  again,  and  away 

from  here.  If  only  my  eyes Let  me  look  at 

you  once  more."  She  sighed  at  once,  and  turned 
away.  He  saw  a  tear  roll  down  her  cheek.  "  Do 


194  The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

you  think,*'  she  said,  "  we  shall  ever  see  the  Studio — 
again  ? " 

He  made  no  answer,  but,  following  a  blind  instinct, 
caught  her  hand.  He  knew  afterwards  that  it  was  a 
pitiful  effort  to  hold  her  from  Death. 

"  I  suppose  you  must  go  now,"  she  said.  He  felt 
that  this  was  her  way  of  telling  him  that  her  strength 
was  failing.  He  rose,  and  kissed  her  good-bye.  "  I 
have  lived,  dearest,"  said  Anna. 

A  little  later  he  found  himself  in  the  street.  All 
feeling  had  left  him :  he  had  no  mind — not  even 
enough  to  wonder  whether  his  soul  were  dead.  He 
walked  into  the  gathering  darkness — on  and  on. 
Then  by  degrees  he  remembered  that  the  meeting  he 
had  longed,  without  hoping  for — had  taken  place. 
He  had  gained  his  heart's  desire :  he  had  seen  Anna 
once  more — spoken  to  her — touched  her — heard  her 
voice.  Swifter  than  words  the  thought  rushed  over 
him  that  he  must  see  her  again  and  explain :  he  had 
been  cold,  distant,  speechless,  impossible. 

He  drove  back  to  Carbury  Street. 

The  landlady  opened  the  door  this  time.  She  told 
him  that  Mrs.  Christian  was  resting  on  the  sofa :  she 
had  not  felt  quite  strong  enough  yet  to  go  upstairs  to 
her  room.  She  was  wonderful  easy  tired.  But  she 
would,  no  doubt,  see  him. 

"  I  was  obliged  to  come  back,  Anna,"  he  said,  when 
he  saw  her.  "  I  think  my  heart  is  broken  j  but,  you 
know — I  love  you.  Words  are  nothing." 

Anna  laughed.  "  I  understand,  of  course,"  she  said. 
"  How  could  I  misunderstand  you  ?  My  dearest  and 
best — my  very  dearest." 

He   drew  a  long   sigh.     "If  you  understand,"  he 


'The  Sinner  s  Comedy.  195 

said,  "that  is  enough.  But  I  wanted  to  make  sure." 
He  knelt  down  by  her  side  and  kissed  her  hands. 

"  It  is  not  every  one,"  she  said,  "  who  can  say — as  I 
can  say — I  have  found  perfect  happiness  and  perfect 
love.  I  think  of  that,  and  forget  everything  else. 
Good-bye.  You  will  come  again — soon  I  " 

"  Soon,"  he  said. 

In  the  hall  he  met  a  man,  drunken,  not  ill-featured, 
but  of  evil  expression.  He  reeled  past  Sacheverell 
with  a  dull  stare,  and  groped  his  way  up  the  staircase, 
bawling : — 

"  It  It  not  mine  to  sing  the  stately  grace, 
The  sweet  soul  shining  in  my  lady's  face. 
Not  mine  in  glo-glorious  melodies " 

It  was  George  Christian.  And  it  was  for  him  to  close 
her  eyes  in  death. 


XI. 

Two  days  later,  Sacheverell  received   a  letter  from 
Mrs.  Grimmage. 

"SiR, — Mrs.  Christian  died  suddenly  this  morning. 
She  sent  for  me,  poor  dear  lady.  I  am  too  upset  to 
write  more.  My  lord,  your  obedient, 

"  E.  GRIMMAGE." 

"  Have  you  got  bad  news,  Peter  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Molle. 
They  were  sitting  at  the  luncheon-table.  He  had 
already  told  her  of  Anna's  illness,  and  she  had  guessed 
the  rest — or  enough.  As  the  woman  was  dying  (by 
a  Special  Providence),  she  viewed  the  situation  with 
complacency.  "  Is  it  bad  news  ?  "  she  repeated. 

"  I  expected  it,"  he  said,  briefly,  and  left  the  room. 

The  blow  had  fallen :  he  could  weep — a  little. 
The  heart-breaking  anxiety,  the  terrible  despair  of  the 
past  four  months  vanished  like  evil  spirits  :  he  felt  and 
believed  that  she  was  with  him  :  that  they  were 
together  as  they  had  never  been  when  life  seemed 
fairest.  And,  as  he  looked  into  the  Past,  he  saw  how 
they  both — by  silent  agreement — had  left  the  end 
unimagined.  With  them  each  day  had  been  but  a 
beginning. 

And  now  it  was  finished. 

When  Sacheverell  entered  the  chamber  of  death  he 
196 


The  Sinners  Comedy.  197 

saw  Anna  lying  on  the  bed,  her  hands  folded  on  her 
breast,  her  eyes  closed  as  though  she  were  resting 
them.  Such  beauty  and  such  peace  were  beyond  all 
words  or  tears.  He  knelt  down  by  the  bedside.  .  .  . 

He  was  next  conscious  of  another  presence  in 
the  room.  He  looked  up,  and  saw  Sir  Richard 
Kilcoursie. 

Kilcoursie  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  I  have  just 
returned,"  he  said,  catching  his  breath,  "from  my 
honeymoon.  .  .  .  Some  one  called  Grimmage  sent  me 
word.  ...  I  loved  her,"  he  added,  fiercely,  "  I  loved 
her.  I  never  knew  how  much.  Do  you  think  she 
knows  ?  She  looks  so  still.  She  was  always  out  of 
my  reach,  and  now — for  ever.  ...  I  was  never 
good  enough.  There  was  no  one  like  her.  No 
one." 

Sacheverell  bowed  his  head. 

They  heard  the  sound  of  sobbing  behind  them.  It 
was  Mrs.  Grimmage. 

"  Doesn't  she  look  beautiful  ?  "  she  said,  wiping  her 
eyes.  "  I  have  never  seen  nothing  to  equal  it.  ...  We 
did  all  we  could.  We  might  have  saved  her  if  she'd 
have  given  in  sooner.  But  she  never  would  give  in. 
She  kept  on  saying,  '  I  shall  soon  be  all  right  again,'  and 
she  wouldn't  have  the  doctor  in  till  this  last  week  or 
two.  She  worked  herself  to  death — and  starved,  if  the 
truth  was  known.  It's  my  firm  belief  that  she  only 
had  a  dinner  when  I  reg'lar  sat  down  and  made  her. 
I  don't  believe  in  them  lunches  she  used  to  say  she  had 
at  the  Studio.  .  .  .  And  that  husband  of  hers  was  always 
nagging  for  money,  and  she  gave  it  till  there  was  next 
to  nothing  left  but  bare  rent.  I  have  been  putting 
two  and  two  together,  and  that's  my  conclusion.  It's 


198  The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

cruel  hard,  it  is.  She  might  ha'  eat  me  out  of  house 
and  home,  poor  dear,  for  less  than  the  asking.  It's  a 
life  thrown  away,  that's  what  it  is.  Clean  thrown 
away.  And  that  husband  of  hers,  with  his  three 
changes  of  air  a  year  and  a  hot  lunch  every  day  of  his 
life — he  flourishes,  he  does.  He's  upstairs  now — taking 
on.  You  never  see'd  such  antics.  Reg'lar  high-strikes. 
He's  fit  to  bust  hisself  crying.  But  he's  got  just 
enough  sense  to  stop  before  the  bust  comes.  Let  him 
howl.  That's  what  I  say.  Let  him  howl !  .  .  .  There 
ain't  no  use  trying  to  understand  Providence.  To 
take  her  and  leave  him" 

"  I  could  not  wish  her  back,"  said  Sacheverell.  He 
bent  over  and  kissed  Anna's  marble  brow — marble-cold 
and  more  radiant  than  the  lilies  on  her  breast — and 
then  passed  out  of  the  room.  Her  spirit  followed 
him  :  he  left  Kilcoursie  gazing  at  her  dead  body. 

When  he  reached  home  it  was  late  in  the  evening. 
But  he  sat  down  to  work  at  his  sermon  for  the  follow- 
ing Sunday.  And  he  worked  well ;  writing  had  not 
been  so  easy  to  him  for  months — for  months  it  had 
been  a  painful  labor. 

Eleanor  watched  him  curiously.  His  calmness 
seemed  to  her  a  little  unfeeling.  She  had  always 
given  him  credit  for  a  certain  amount  of  heart.  She 
could  only  compare  his  position  to  her  own  when 
the  Major  died,  and  she  had  been  distracted.  Her 
prostrate  condition  had  been  the  talk  of  every  tea- 
party  in  Ballincollig  for  weeks.  If  Peter  had  been 
in  love  with  that  extraordinary  artist-woman,  he  cer- 
tainly had  a  very  singular  way  of  showing  it. 

"  Will  you  preach  to-morrow,  as  usual  ? "  she  ven- 
tured to  say. 


'The  Sinner's  Comedy.  199 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  without  looking  up  from  his 
paper.  "  Shall  I  not  live  as  she  would  have  me  live — 
working  ?  " 

But  the  future,  as  he  saw  it,  was  dim.  .  .  . 

Some  years  afterwards  the  Bishop  of  Gaunt  confided 
his  brief  love-story  to  a  friend. 

"  But  why,"  said  the  friend,  "  since  the  husband  had 
forfeited  every  right  to  be  considered,  why  didn't  you 
punch  his  head  and  bear  the  woman  off  in  triumph  ?  " 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  said  Sacheverell,  "I  was 
tempted  to  some  such  decisive  measure  —  sorely 
tempted." 

"  If  you  had  succumbed,"  said  the  friend,  drily, 
"  she  would  have  recovered." 

"  Don't  say  so,"  said  Sacheverell,  putting  out  his 
hand  ;  "  I  think  I  know  //." 

The  friend,  who  was  a  psychologist,  went  home 
with  more  material  for  his  great  work  on  Impulse  and 
Reason. 

If  the  gods  have  no  sense  of  humour  they  must 
weep  a  great  deal. 


A  STUDr  IN  TEMPTATIONS 


To  A. 

DESIDERIUM    ANIM.ffi     EJUS    TRIBUISTI    El 

DOMINE,    ET   VOLUNTATE    LABIORUM 

EJUS    NON    FRAUDASTI    EUM. 


VITAM     PETIFT    A     TE,     ET    TRIBUISTI     El 

LONGITUDINEM    DIERUM    IN 

SPECULUM    S7ECULI. 


February  7^,  1892. 


**  IN  order  to  judge  whether  what  is  said  or  done  by  any 
character  be  well  or  ill,  we  are  not  to  consider  that  speech 
or  action  alone,  whether  in  itself  it  be  good  or  bad,  but 
also  by  whom  it  is  spoken  or  done,  to  whom,  at  what 
time,  in  what  manner,  or  for  what  end.  .  .  . 

"  To  opinion,  or  what  is  commonly  said  to  be,  may  be 
referred  even  such  things  as  are  improbable  and  absurd  ; 
and  it  may  also  be  said  that  events  of  that  kind  are,  some- 
times, not  really  improbable  ;  since,  '  it  is  probable  that 
many  things  should  happen  contrary  to  probability.' " — 
ARISTOT.,  Poet. 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE. 

IN  the  brief  sketches  of  Farmer  Battle  and  Miss  Caroline 
Battle,  the  author's  aim  has  been  to  suggest,  not  to  repro- 
duce, a  dialect ;  and  by  so  doing  he  ventures  to  think  he 
is  humbly  following  many  great  examples. 


PREFACE  TO  SECOND 

THIS  little  work  has  been  received  with  such  extraordinary 
kindness,  and  the  author  has  been  scolded  for  its  faults  with 
such  generosity  and  grace,  that  he  could  almost  wish  he  might 
offend  his  critics  again,  if  only  for  the  honour  of  being  so 
wittily  rebuked.  There  is  a  story  told  of  a  man  who  begged 
his  wife  to  tell  him  his  besetting  sin,  "  In  order,"  said  he, 
" that  I  may  conquer  it,  and  so  please  you  in  all  respects" 
With  much  reluctance,  and  only  after  many  exhortations  to  be 
honest,  the  lady  replied  that  she  feared  he  was  selfish.  "  I  am 
not  perfect,"  said  her  husband,  "  and  perhaps  I  am  a  sinful 
creature,  but  if  there  is  one  fault  which  I  thank  God  I  do  not 
possess  it  is  selfishness.  Anything  but  that  I"  and  as  he  spoke, 
he  passed  her  the  apples — they  were  at  luncheon — and  set  him- 
self to  work  on  the  only  peach.  Now  the  author  is  in  the  same 
frame  of  mind  with  regard  to  the  charge  of  flippancy  :  be 
cannot  bring  himself  to  own  that  he  is  flippant :  he  longs  to  be 
told  his  short-comings,  he  is  most  eager  to  please  his  readers  in 
all  respects,  but  he  will  not  admit  that  he  is  cynical — anything 
but  that.  He  is  by  nature  so  extremely  serious  that,  like  the 
good  angel  who  liked  laughter,  he  has  thought  it  wiser  to  curb 
his  disposition  at  all  events  for  the  present.  A  greater  part 
of  the  book  was  composed  under  the  strain  of  bad  health,  and 
all  of  it  in  circumstances  of  peculiar  anxiety.  If  the  author 
had  written  as  he  felt  and  thought,  the  result  would  have  been 
very  far  from  amusing.  And  his  sole  aim  has  been  to  amuse. 

In  times  of  illness,  irritability,  and  grief,  he  has  often  cast 
207 


208  Preface  to  Second  Edition. 

about  him  for  some  light  reading — simple  yet  not  altogether 
meaningless,  unreal  yet  not  impossible  :  he  has  longed  to  draw 
a  veil  on  actualities  and  see  a  shadow-life  frisking  on  tiptoes, 
followed  by  a  dance  of  sorrows  ana  a  merry-making  of  cares. 
He  does  not  presume  to  say  that  he  has  fulfilled  his  own  desire 
in  the  following  pages,  but  the  desire  in  question  may  explain 
their  tone. 

In  conclusion,  this  fantasia  makes  no  claim  to  the  great 
title  of  novel,  and  is,  indeed,  no  more  than  it  is  called — "  A 
Study  in  Temptations  " — and  it  will  be  found  that  at  least 
one  form  of  temptation,  if  not  more,  is  dealt  with  in  each 
chapter. 


A  Study  in   Temptations. 

PROLOGUE. 

WHICH   CONTAINS    ALL   THE   TRAGEDY  OF   THE   BOOK. 

"M/iRT  CECILIA  aged  seventeen,  with  whom  lies 
buried  all  the  hope,  all  the  belief  in  God  and  goodness  of 
her  husband,  Charles  Sydney  Jenyns.n 

The  grave-digger  who  spelled  out  this  inscription  on 
the  coffin,  nudged  his  companion,  and  they  clambered 
up  the  sides  of  the  grave  to  stare  after  a  man,  who, 
with  dragging  steps  and  bent  head,  was  slowly  groping 
his  way  out  of  the  cemetery.  He  avoided  the  path,  and 
slunk  round  and  among  the  numerous  mounds  and 
monuments,  frequently  stumbling,  and  often  halting 
outright. 

"  Did  you  see  'is  face  ? "  said  the  elder  of  the  grave- 
diggers  ;  "  'e  ain't  a  day  more'n  two-and-twenty. 
'Tain't  every  one  as  marries  so  fool'ardy  young  as 
gits  out  of  it  so  easy  !  " 

His  assistant,  less  philosophical  but  more  kindly, 
blinked  his  eyes  and  gave  a  cheerless  laugh.  "  'E 
pro'bly  thinks,"  he  said,  "  as  'e's  the  'ardest  done-by  in 
the  'ole  world.  'E  don't  see  as  it  all  stands  to  reason, 
as  you  and  me  do,  tless  yer.  'E  only  thinks  as  when 
'e  gits  'ome  there  won't  be  nobody  there  J " 


2IO  A  Study  in  'Temptations. 

"  I  knows  some,"  said  his  senior,  with  a  grim  smile, 
"  as  'ud  thank  the  Almighty  if  they  could  go  'ome  and 
find  the  'ouse  empty !  They  wouldn't  say  nothink 
agin  the  goodness  of  Gord,  they  wouldn't.  They 
wouldn't  be  writin'  none  of  this  'ere.  They  would  be 
foldin'  their  'ands  and  sayin'  as  Gord's  will  is  for  the 
best,  and  be-yaving  theirselves  like  Christians !  " 

Then  they  resumed  their  work,  and  in  working 
forgot  to  moralize. 

The  object  of  their  remarks,  meanwhile,  having 
refused  to  drive  home  in  the  solitary  mourning  coach 
which  with  the  hearse  had  formed  the  funeral  proces- 
sion, found  his  strength  so  unequal  to  the  task  of 
walking,  that  he  sank  on  a  bench  outside  a  public- 
house,  which  stood  conveniently  near  the  entrance  to 
the  cemetery.  He  was,  as  the  grave-digger  had 
observed,  quite  young  and  certainly  not  more  than 
two-and-twenty.  He  was  tall,  but  somewhat  bent — 
not  that  he  stooped,  there  was  rather  a  leaning  forward 
of  his  whole  body.  His  brilliant  eyes  seemed  to  have 
burnt  deep  into  their  sockets,  and  they  cast  a  flickering 
light  on  the  pallor  of  his  cheeks,  which  looked  the 
more  pale  in  contrast  with  his  dark  hair. 

He  was  at  an  early  stage  of  grief,  and  he  felt  as 
though  he  were  two  beings — one,  speechless  and 
stricken  ;  the  other,  a  mere  spectator,  who  philoso- 
phized, and  mocked,  and  wept,  and  laughed  by  starts 
and  was  only  constant  in  watching.  That  he  was 
sorrowful,  he  guessed — but  what  was  sorrow  ?  He 
knew  that  he  had  loved — yet  what  was  love  ?  He 
lived — and  what  was  life  ?  Mary  was  dead.  Im- 
mortality might  be,  but  she  once  was.  O  lovely  fact 
to  weigh  against  the  ghost-like  possibility ! 


A  Study  in   Temptations.  211 

To  whatever  end  his  thoughts  were  tending  (and 
the  way  was  broad),  they  were  diverted,  for  the 
moment  at  least,  by  the  potman,  who,  moved  by  com- 
passion, or  following  his  invariable  custom  in  dealing 
with  mourners,  came  out  to  tell  him  that  there  was  a 
private  room  within,  where  he  would  find  a  fire, 
writing  materials,  and  the  daily  papers.  Jenyns,  to 
his  own  amazement,  but  as  the  potman  had  foreseen, 
acted  on  the  hint  and  followed  him  into  a  small, 
musty  room  which  barely  atoned  for  its  stale  odour, 
its  dismal  light,  and  oppressive  warmth,  by  being 
empty.  The  potman  poked  the  fire,  smoothed  out 
the  Sportsman,  stirred  the  ink  with  the  one  quill  in 
the  pen-tray,  and,  while  thus  exercising  his  hands,  had 
his  eyes  and  his  wits  concentrated  on  the  mysterious 
and  melancholy  wayfarer. 

The  interest  Jenyns  had  created  in  the  minds  of 
the  grave-diggers,  was  slight  compared  with  the  sensa- 
tion he  had  unconsciously  produced  among  the  patrons 
of  the  "  Jolly  Nell."  (The  original  sign  had  been  the 
"  Jolly  Knell,"  but  this  having  been  repudiated  by  the 
present  proprietor — an  Irishman — as  Dutch  spelling, 
the  K  was  painted  out.)  Jenyns's  bearing,  appearance 
and  expression  were  so  unusual,  and  his  features  so 
handsome,  that  had  the  same  gossips  met  him  under  the 
most  commonplace  conditions,  they  would  still  have 
paused  to  guess  his  calling,  or  to  wonder  what  path  lay 
before  him.  On  this  occasion,  however,  the  despair 
on  his  countenance,  the  possible  romance  connected 
with  it,  and  the  unlikeness  between  himself  and  the 
mean — almost  abject — circumstances  of  the  funeral, 
gave  him  a  prominence  far  greater,  than  if  he  had 
buried  his  dead  with  every  elegant  sign  of  still  more 
elegant  grief, 


212  A  Study  in   Temptations. 

As  the  landlady  pointed  out,  had  he  been  really 
poor,  he  would  have  driven  home  in  the  carriage — a 
poor  man  could  not  afford  to  miss  such  chances; 
further,  he  would  not  have  been  alone,  for  his  family, 
or  at  least  his  neighbours,  would  have  seized  the  op- 
portunity for  a  breath  of  fresh  air  and  a  nice  change ; 
they  would  have  made  it,  in  fact,  a  chastened  holiday- 
jaunt.  She  did  not  use  that  particular  phrase,  but  her 
nod  was  to  that  effect.  Her  crowning  observation 
that  he  was  a  student,  or  something  of  that,  who  had 
got  some  young  woman  into  trouble,  and  the  poor 
thing  had  died  of  a  broken  heart,  and  he  was  being  eat 
up  by  remorse,  was  made  in  a  whisper  so  thrilling, 
that  it  pierced  through  the  thin  door  and  reached 
Jenyns's  sensitive  ear.  He  waited  to  hear  no  more, 
but  leaving  half-a-crown  (his  last)  on  the  table,  walked 
so  quickly  and  noiselessly  out  of  the  house,  that  the 
group  in  the  bar-room,  who  were  so  eagerly  discuss- 
ing him,  did  not  notice  his  departure. 

Once  on  the  main  road,  he  seemed  to  gain  a  certain 
composure  and  his  strength  of  limb;  he  walked 
hurriedly  and  was,  in  fact,  racing  against  the  thoughts 
which  threatened  every  moment  to  outstrip  and  over- 
come him.  When  he  finally  halted  it  was  nearly 
evening,  and  he  had  reached  a  dingy  dwelling  in  one 
of  the  streets  near  King's  Cross.  The  neighbour- 
hood was  poor  and  the  door  of  the  house  stood  open — 
as  doors  may,  when  there  is  little  to  offer  friends  and 
nothing  to  tempt  the  thieving. 

A  small  boy  and  his  mother  stood  by  the  area 
railings,  and  they  both  looked  after  Jenyns  as  he 
passed  in. 

"Mother,"  said  the  boy,  tugging  at  the  woman's 


A  Study  in  temptations.  213 

apron — "  mother,  next  time  a  lodger  dies  may  I  have 
another  half-holiday  ? " 

Jenyns  heard  the  question,  and,  smiling  faintly, 
walked  slowly  up  the  creaking  staircase  till  he  reached 
a  room  on  the  fourth  landing.  He  crept  in  and 
gazed  stupidly  around  it  :  noticed  that  there  was  a 
cupboard  door  half-open,  a  few  medicine  bottles  on 
the  mantelpiece,  a  pile  of  women's  garments  on  a 
chair,  a  white  straw  hat,  trimmed  with  ribbons,  on  the 
chest  of  drawers.  Inch  by  inch  his  eyes  travelled  from 
the  chair  to  the  table,  from  the  table  to  the  floor,  from 
the  floor  to  a  pair  of  small,  muddy  shoes  with  ridiculous 
French  heels,  from  the  shoes  to  the  bed,  and  there,  as 
it  seemed  to  him,  he  saw  her  lying  as  she  had  been 
for  two  days  past,  before  they  lifted  her  into  the 
coffin. 

"God!  O  God!"  he  called. 

But  no  God  answered. 

He  bent  over  the  imaginary  form.  "  Wake  up  !  " 
he  whispered — "  wake  up  !  You  are  dreaming,  that's 
all.  You  have  often  dreamt  before.  Wake  up ! 
Mary  !  Mary  !  are  you  so  tired  ? M 

Outside  the  house  he  heard  a  rustling,  a  strange 
shrieking  and  wailing.  Was  it  all  the  wind  ?  It 
seemed  to  the  half-crazed  man  a  Presence — a  host  of 
Presences  swarming  in  at  the  windows,  down  the 
chimney,  and  gathering  round  him. 

w  I  do  not  fear  you,"  he  said  j  "  there  is  no  worse 
torment  than  living.  Where  you  are,  Hell  must  be, 
and  you  are  everywhere.  Pain  is  nothing  j  every- 
thing is  nothing  ;  You  are  nothing.  But — damn  you 
— I  will  believe  in  you  if  you  can  wake  " — he  pointed 
to  the  empty  bed — "if  you  can  wake  one  of  us" 


214  A  Study  in   Temptations. 


cc 


;  I  cannot,"  said  a  sorrowful  voice.  Jenyns  rubbed 
his  eyes,  and  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Oh,  is  it  only  you,  Wrath  ?  "  he  said.  "  What  a 
fool  I  am  j  I  thought  you  were  the  devil." 

The  man  he  addressed,  and  who  had  followed  him 
into  the  room  unperceived,  was  of  middle  height  and 
extraordinarily  thin  :  his  features  and  form  looked 
misty  and  ill-defined,  as  though  he  stood  behind  a 
cloud  and  were  trying  to  pierce  through  it. 

"Would  you  have  your  wife  live  again  that  she 
may  die  again  ?  "  he  said,  quietly — "  that  you  may 
bury  her  again  ?  " 

"No,  no,"  muttered  Jenyns — "no,  no,  not  this 
again.  A  jump  from  the  window  or  a  prick  at  my 
throat  would  settle  my  mind  for  ever.  If  there  is  a 
hereafter  I  would  know  it,  and  if  there  isn't — well, 
I  could  not  feel  the  disappointment.  Clay  has  no 
illusions  to  lose.  You  see,"  he  added,  "I  have  not 
called  up  the  devil  for  nothing  ! " 

Jenyns's  idea  of  religion — picked  from  street-corners 
and  Ingersoll — began  and  ended  with  the  doctrine 
of  Eternal  Punishment.  When  he  was  happy  and 
thought  himself  an  enlightened  believer  in  the  possi- 
bility of  a  Supreme  Reason,  he  forgot  it  j  when  he  was 
in  trouble,  he  could  think  of  nothing  else.  Some- 
times it  filled  him  with  panic,  sometimes  with  despera- 
tion :  more  often  than  all  with  a  longing  to  be  in  the 
Place  of  Torment — to  know  the  worst,  to  put  an  end 
to  the  torturing  suspense  and  doubt. 

"If  the  devil  can  answer  your  curses,"  said 
Wrath,  "why  not  try  whether  God  will  answer 
prayers  ? w 

"  Cursing  is  quick,"  said  Jenyns,  "  and  prayers  are 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  215 

long.  Call  Satan  but  under  your  breath  and  he  comes. 
But  God — you  may  wear  out  your  knees  and  your 
voice  before  He  will  answer,  and  then  He  will  give 
you  not  peace  but  a  sword,  not  ease  but  a  thorn  in  the 
flesh,  not  love  but  chastisements !  The  greater  the 
saint,  the  thicker  the  scourge  !  Where's  the  fool  who 
would  pray  day  and  night  for  such  blessings  ?  Have 
I  not  grief  enough  and  despair  enough  but  I  must 
entreat  for  more  ?  " 

Wrath  groaned.  "Human  nature  is  so  discon- 
tented !  "  he  said  :  "  I  have  been  starving  for  a  month, 
and  I  must  own  that  this  constant  gnawing  at  one's 
vitals  becomes  tedious  :  I  would  prefer  a  newer  pain." 

"Let  us  both  pray  for  another  sort  of  anguish," 
said  Jenyns,  "  the  good  old  monks  were  artistic  :  they 
believed  that  variety  was  beauty,  so  they  occasionally 
skinned  a  heretic  before  they  boiled  him  !  " 

Wrath  accepted  this  as  a  sign  of  returning  cheerful- 
ness. "  The  story  runs  so  well,"  he  said,  "  I  will  not 
be  pedantic  and  press  for  your  authority.  But  it 
sounds  like  an  evangelical  tract."  He  rose  from  his 
seat  and  began  to  pace  the  floor.  Life  to  him  was  a 
pilgrimage,  and  the  fortunes  and  misfortunes  of  the 
journey  troubled  him  but  a  little  j  he  could  not  under- 
stand despair.  "  Perhaps  you  are  best  alone,"  he  said  j 
"  my  mother  used  to  say  that  to  be  alone  with  grief 
was  to  live  in  company  with  angels.  I  think  she 
knew ;  she  had  a  great  deal  to  endure.  If  I  sell  my 
picture  we  can  run  over  to  Venice  together  ;  I  mean, 
of  course,  if  you  would  care  to  go  with  me.  ...  I 
do  not  wonder  this  room  is  gloomy ;  it  has  stolen  the 
odour  of  a  dozen  honest  dinners.  Let  us  go  down 
in  the  kitchen  and  see  the  baby.  I  sketched  her  this 


216  A  Study  in   Temptations. 

morning  j  here  it  is  :  *  Study  of  an  Infant  Genius : 
aged  four  days.' " 

"  Don't  talk  of  her,"  said  Jenyns,  fiercely  j  "  I  never 
wish  to  look  upon  her  face  again.  She  killed  her 
mother.  ...  I  see  no  God  in  nature — only  Hell, 
cruel,  relentless,  hideous." 

"  Bah  !  "  said  Wrath.  "  Don't  get  your  nose  in  an 
artificial  manure  heap  and  think  you  are  studying 
nature.  If  you  take  Zola  for  your  gospel  and  the 
gospel  for  fiction,  God  must  help  you.  I  cannot. 
Where  is  your  spirit  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  want  to  be  a  hero,"  said  Jenyns,  sullenly, 
"  or  a  saint ;  I  want  my  wife." 

"  Heroes  and  husbands  are  made  by  the  occasion," 
said  Wrath  j  "  no  one  is  born  a  husband  and  no  one 
is  born  a  pious,  homicidal  hero  !  At  first  he  is  just 
man — man  with  a  birthright  of  seven  deadly  sins  and 
one  small  conscience.  There  never  was  a  saint,  you 
may  rest  perfectly  sure,  but  he  might  have  fallen 
twenty  times  a  day,  if  he  had  not  fought  the  enemy 
with  fine  courage.  Why  don't  you  howl  because  the 
trees  are  bare  ?  Who  would  think  that  such  grim 
skeletons  could  ever  be  bright  with  leaves  again,  or 
look  just  as  they  did  last  year  ?  Yet  they  will ;  and 
so,  when  the  time  comes,  you  will  see  your  wife  j  you 
have  only  buried  the  dead  leaves  of  a  soul."  At  no 
time  an  eloquent  man  but  always  one  to  whom  speech 
was  even  a  painful  effort,  he  went  out  of  the  room 
after  this  outburst.  With  the  inconsequence  of  the 
artistic  reason  he  had  a  sudden  idea  for  a  picture  he 
was  then  designing. 

Jenyns  was  once  more  alone.  He  gave  a  feeble 
laugh  and  hurried  to  the  window \  it  was  open;  he 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  217 

looked  down  and  shivered.  Then  he  looked  up  at  the 
dark  sky. 

"God,"  he  said,  "if  you  are  there,  and  if  you  know 
everything,  you  must  be  sorry  for  me." 

He  climbed  up  on  the  sill,  held  out  his  arms,  and 
with  a  sob  leapt  into  the  night  and  eternity. 

A  second  later  Wrath  re-entered.  He  was  breath- 
less, and  was  reading  a  letter. 

"  Now  admit,"  he  said,  "  there  is  a  God  who  answers 
prayers.  We  can  go  to  Venice.  Tooth  has  sold  my 
'  Antigone.'  Three  hundred " 

His  only  answer  was  a  shout  of  horror,  a  hum  of 
voices,  a  sound  of  hurrying  in  the  street  below.  He 
leaned  out  of  the  window  and  understood  the  confu- 
sion. 

"Mater  Dei!"  he  cried.  "Ah,  don't  groan! 
Lift  him  gently !  Take  care !  Five  pounds — 
twenty — to  the  man  who  is  quickest  with  the 
doctor !  " 

A  man  looked  up  from  the  crowd.  "  I  should  like 
to  see  the  five  pound  fust"  he  said.  A  faint  titter 
greeted  his  wisdom  ;  an  old  woman  sobbed. 

"  Come  away ! "  said  a  girl,  who  was  hanging  on 
the  arm  of  her  sweetheart ;  "  there  is  always  some- 
thing to  spoil  my  evening  out !  " 

The  titter  and  the  sob,  the  sweetheart's  retreating 
footsteps,  and  Jenyns's  death  moan,  each  gave  their 
note  to  the  great  unceasing  murmur  of  the  city. 


\--\\\    \ 


UP-AT-BATTLE'S. 

THE  family  of  Drawne  was  not  distinguished  till  the 
time  of  the  Reformation,  when  one  Richard  Drawne 
was  rewarded  for  his  holy  zeal  in  the  suppression  of 
monasteries,  by  a  large  grant  of  confiscated  church 
property,  including  the  Abbey  of  St.  Wilfred,  with 
the  manor-house,  monastery  and  demesne  lands  of  the 
same,  amounting  to  four  thousand  three  hundred  acres. 
He  did  not  live  long  to  enjoy  his  honours,  but  died  of 
a  fever,  leaving  his  daughter,  Anne,  sole  heiress.  In 
the  reign  of  Edward  VI.  this  lady  married  the  Earl  of 
Warbeck,  and  thus  brought  her  great  wealth  to  that 
ancient  house  which  had  become  sadly  impoverished 
for  various  but  uninteresting  causes.  The  heiress, 
however,  was  very  tenacious  of  her  female  right,  and 
left  no  legal  loopholes  by  which  her  property  could 
become  one  with  the  Warbeck  peerage  :  the  Drawne 
acres  were  an  inheritance  past  comparison  with  any 
empty  earldom.  But  during  three  centuries  t)f  strug- 
gle and  change  which  followed,  male  heirs  in  direct 
succession  never  failed,  and  the  Earls  of  Warbeck, 
by  innocently  anticipating  the  miraculous  policy  of 
the  Vicar  of  Bray,  not  only  held  their  possessions,  but 
escaped  the  inconvenient  glories  of  persecution  and 
martyrdom. 

At  the  time  of  our  story,  Henry  Fitzgerald  George 

3l8 


A  Study  in   'Temptations.  219 

Vandeleur  Shannon  was  i5th  Earl  of  Warbeck,  and 
one  Jane  Shannon  stood  in  the  inconsiderable  relation 
of  niece  to  his  lordship.  Jane's  father  had  been  the 
fourth  son  of  the  late  Earl — a  kinship  in  itself  suffi- 
ciently contemptible  from  tne  standpoint  of  the  heir, 
but  when  the  said  fourth  son  married  the  daughter  of 
a  yeoman-farmer,  he  lost  even  the  small  right  he  had 
to  twinkle  in  the  Warbeck  heaven,  and  was  considered 
— not  a  fallen  star,  but  no  star  at  all. 

Since  tho  object  of  such  just  indignation  and  scorn 
was  unable  to  earn  his  own  bread  (from  the  fact,  no 
doubt,  that  he  had  half-killed  himself  writing  a  Prize 
Essay — "  De  Labore  "),  he  lived  on  the  charity  of  his 
yoeman  father-in-law  till,  as  he  himself  expressed  it,  he 
left  a  world  where  he  was  not  wanted,  to  abide  with 
that  sleek  host,  the  worm.  In  other  words,  he  died  of 
his  own  grim  humour,  assisted  by  a  certain  difficulty 
in  breathing,  a  trouble  in  his  liver,  a  pain  in  his  head, 
and  a  grip  at  his  left  side.  His  wife,  who  was  with 
child  at  the  time  of  his  death,  postponed  breaking  her 
heart  till  she  had  brought  forth  her  little  one,  and 
then  she  turned  her  sad  face  to  the  wall,  and  died  also. 
The  care  of  the  child  thus  fell  to  the  yoeman-farmer, 
who,  by  this  time,  may  be  said  to  have  some  claim  on 
the  reader's  sympathy. 

Samuel  Battle — such  was  his  name — came  of  sound 
stock.  One  John  Battle  and  Matthew  his  brother 
had  fought  under  Cromwell.  Their  descendants, 
under  the  Restoration,  had,  with  two  exceptions, 
abandoned  the  field  of  war  for  the  more  tranquil,  if 
less  conspicuous,  honours  of  farming.  Of  the  excep- 
tions, one  was  a  certain  Anthony,  a  scholar  and  wit, 
who  wrote  some  love  verses  and  a  comedy  (composi- 


22O  A  Study  in   Temptations. 

tions,  which,  dying  to  posterity,  had  left  their  reputa- 
tion like  some  unhallowed  spirit  to  haunt  the  family 
conscience)  ;  the  other,  Nicholas,  was  one  of  the  some 
two  thousand  -clergy  who  were  expelled  from  their 
parishes  for  Nonconformity  in  1662.  It  was  from  this 
Nicholas  that  Samuel  Battle,  the  yoeman-farmer,  took 
his  descent.  Jane  Shannon  was  heiress,  therefore,  to 
many  conflicting  dispositions. 

Battle's  farm,  or,  as  it  was  known  in  the  district, 
"  Up-at-Battle's,"  lay  some  eight  miles  to  the  east 
of  Brentmore,  a  small  watering-place  in  the  south 
of  England,  noted  for  its  scenery,  its  climate,  and 
the  sleep-bringing  mission  of  its  air.  The  farm-house 
was  unpretentious,  and  though  presenting  to  a  town- 
trained  eye  an  appearance  of  picturesque  antiquity, 
it  was,  in  fact,  an  extremely  ugly  cottage  of  the 
Victorian  era,  made  to  look  rambling  and  picturesque 
by  means  of  the  numerous  rooms,  store-cupboards, 
and  outhouses  added  to  it  during  Battle's  own  lifetime. 
The  property,  when  he  first  came  into  possession,  had 
consisted  of  pasture-land,  a  small  orchard,  and  a  large 
yard.  The  greater  part  of  the  original  homestead 
(built  about  1700)  had  been  destroyed  by  fire,  and 
Battle's  father,  acting  on  the  advice  of  a  young  and 
second  wife,  had  completed  the  work  of  destruction, 
by  building  on  its  ruins  the  aforesaid  Victorian  cottage. 
An  unkind  rumor  had  it,  that  what  remained  of  the 
best  parlour  1  of  the  first  Mrs.  Battle,  could  now 
be  recognised  in  the  most  retired  portion  of  the 
dwelling. 

Samuel  Battle,  on  coming  into  his  inheritance,  was 
not  slow  to  show  himself  a  man  of  singular  energy, 
perseverance,  and  shrewdness  :  he  was  quick  to  see 


A  Study  in   Temptations.  22 1 

that  letting  land  was  more  profitable  than  tilling  it. 
He  was  also  in  favour  of  small  plots  and  short  leases — 
the  advantages  of  which,  as  he  was  careful  to  point 
out  to  dubious  tenants,  cut  both  ways,  although  they 
might  occasionally  cut  a  bit  deeper  on  one  side  than 
on  the  other.  An  enigmatic  saying,  which  time  and 
the  increasing  value  of  the  ground  made  clear. 

His  education,  culled  as  it  was  from  the  Scriptures, 
and  guiltless  of  School  Board  trimmings,  gave  him 
a  command  of  language,  a  stern  dignity  and  sterner 
refinement,  than  could  be  found  now  in  younger  men 
of  his  station,  who  too  often  talk  big  words  from 
their  favourite  newspaper,  mistake  insolence  for  in- 
dependence, and  swagger  for  good  breeding.  Dr. 
Johnson's  saying  that  "  the  Devil  was  the  first  Whig  " 
was  the  first  article  of  Battle's  political  belief,  and, 
a  staunch  Nonconformist,  he  so  far  availed  himself 
of  the  right  of  private  judgment  that  where  his  co- 
religionists read  "  Down  with  authority"  he  only 
discovered  exhortations  to  obedience.  He  was,  there- 
ore,  a  Tory,  but  for  no  other  reason  than  because 
he  did  not  see  how  a  professed  Christian  could  be 
anything  else.  From  which  it  would  seem  that  if 
Samuel  Battle  did  wrong  he  did  it  rightly. 

At  the  time  of  which  we  write,  the  inmates  of  the 
farm-house  numbered  four,  and  were  Battle  himself, 
his  spinster  daughter  Miss  Caroline,  his  one  grandchild 
Jane  Shannon,  and  a  young  boy  named  De  Boys 
Mauden,  who  was  his  nephew  by  marriage — a  relative 
as  distant  as  he  was  poor. 

Jane  was  three  years  younger  than  De  Boys,  and 
when  he  first  came  to  the  farm-house,  he  was  seven, 
and  she,  four.  He  was  handsome,  but  she  was  a  plain 


222  A  Study  In  Temptations. 

little  creature,  all  eyes  and  legs,  though  the  eyes  had 
fire,  and  the  legs  were  shapely. 

This  child  as  she  grew  up  was  taught  to  read  and 
write,  to  add  figures,  to  make  butter  and  jam,  to  do 
plain  sewing,  and  to  work  hideous  patterns  with 
Berlin  wool  on  blue  canvas.  When  she  was  nine, 
she  was  sent  to  a  day-school,  and  had  lessons  in 
drawing,  French,  and  music,  and  her  education,  on  the 
whole,  was  no  less  thorough  than  that  of  many  young 
ladies  of  fashion.  She  could  write,  "  The  gardener's 
wife  has  two  children"  in  a  foreign  language,  and 
she,  too,  in  the  course  of  time  strummed  Heller's 
"  Tarentella,"  the  "  Moonlight "  sonata,  and  Chopin's 
Valses.  She  played  them  to  De  Boys  long  before  he 
had  learnt  the  manners  to  listen. 

She  was  brought  up  as  a  Dissenter,  but  her  father 
had  been  a  devout  Catholic,  and  it  had  been  promised 
that  when  she  arrived  at  years  of  discretion,  she  would 
be  given  every  opportunity  to  hear  the  claims  of 
Catholicism.  In  the  meantime,  however,  no  pains 
were  spared  to  warn  her  against  Antichrist,  the 
Mother  of  harlots,  and  idolatry  j  for  the  wives  and 
daughters  of  the  deacons  thought  it  a  terrible  sign 
of  more  iniquitous  practices  to  come,  when  it  was 
known  that  she  cherished  her  dead  father's  rosary  and 
crucifix. 

Jane's  instructor  in  the  useful  arts,  such  as  mending, 
darning,  patchwork,  and  the  like,  was  her  aunt,  Miss 
Caroline.  Miss  Caroline  Battle  was  what  men  call 
a  sensible  woman,  which  is  a  way  of  saying  that  she 
did  not  attach  too  much  weight  to  their  smiles, 
although  she  could  always  smile  in  her  turn.  She 
was  comely,  too,  with  soft  brown  eyes  and  a  pillow- 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  223 

like  figure,  which  counteracted  the  occasional  sharp- 
ness of  her  tongue.  Miss  Caroline,  like  happy  Peter 
Bell,  beheld  but  did  not  speculate  :  she  tended  her 
garden,  watched  the  stars,  and  read  two  chapters  of 
Scripture  every  night  of  her  life.  She  kept  hens,  and 
ducks,  and  bees,  and  her  butter  was  the  pride  of  the 
country.  She  possessed  a  Maltese  lace  shawl,  and  an 
illustrated  Shakespeare,  also  a  set  of  Whitby  jet  orna- 
ments, and  an  amethyst  brooch.  These  treasures, 
however,  she  kept  locked  in  her  wardrobe  because 
they  were  heirlooms,  and  as  such  were  treasured  in 
silver  paper.  For  light  literature  she  gave  Jane  "  The 
Pilgrim's  Progress,"  " Lady  Audley's  Secret,"  "Amy 
Herbert,"  "  Paul  and  Virginia,"  "  Roderick  Random," 
"  ^Esop's  Fables,"  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  and,  on  Sunday 
afternoons  and  anniversaries,  Dante's  "  Inferno,"  illus- 
trated by  Dore.  The  horrors  of  this  last,  while  they 
struck  misery  to  Jane's  soul,  were  largely  mitigated 
by  the  story  of  Francesca  de  Rimini,  which,  Miss 
Caroline  thought,  could  only  be  edifying,  since,  from 
all  she  could  gather,  the  whole  Rimini  family  were 
in  Hell,  and  burning  examples  of  foreign  immorality 
and  its  just  reward.  Why  so  gentle  a  being  as 
Caroline  Battle  should  take  satisfaction,  so  deep- 
reaching  that  it  amounted  to  pleasure,  in  a  tale  which 
for  exciting  pity  and  terror  is  hardly  to  be  matched, 
can  only  be  accounted  for  on  the  ground,  that  Hell 
and  sin,  as  actualities,  were  so  impossible  to  her 
imagination,  that  she  believed  in  one  and  disapproved 
of  the  other  as  a  child  swallows  medicine,  and  "  hates  " 
porridge. 

To  Jane,  however,  whose  character  was  of  a  very 
different  cast — for    she  saw   everything   through   the 


224  -A  Study  in   Temptations. 

rainbow  haze  of  her  own  moods — the  idea  of  being 
damned  for  love  became  so  familiar  and  so  fascinating, 
that  to  love  without  losing  one's  soul  (if,  indeed,  such 
a  thing  were  possible),  seemed  to  her  dull,  spiritless, 
monotonous,  and  bumpkin  like.  To  marry,  to  settle, 
to  grow  stout,  and  at  the  last  to  be  "  Jane,  wife  of  the 
above,  aged  74.  Until  the  day  break  and  the  shadows 
flee  away."  Unthinkable  prospect !  But  to  float  in 
the  air  through  countless  ages — a  sight  to  inspire  poets 
and  make  them  swoon — that  were  a  destiny  worthy 
the  name  !  She  confided  this  opinion  to  De  Boys, 
who  agreed  that  it  would  be  fine  to  swim  in  the 
winds  j  but  he  thought  that  a  girl  hanging  on  his 
neck  would  mar  the  gloriousness  of  the  excursion. 
Such  is  the  brutality  of  man  at  fourteen. 

Quite  early  De  Boys  had  shown  a  taste  for  learning, 
and  had  dreams  very  far  removed  from  the  walls, 
turnip-fields,  and  potato-beds  of  Up-at-Battle's.  He 
held  very  pronounced  views  on  literary  style,  and 
wrote  numerous  sermons  in  the  manner  of  Gibbon, 
which  Jane  considered  far  superior  to  anything 
achieved  by  that  historian  himself.  In  gayer  moments 
he  attempted  blank  verse  (in  the  Miltonic  strain),  and 
composed  two  acts  of  a  tragedy — "Julius  Caesar  in 
Britain" — in  which  Jane  declared  that  Julius  Caesar 
sounded  exactly  like  De  Boys,  particularly  in  a  fine 
speech  about  women,  which  began,  "  Hence,  pampered 
minions,  born  of  pride  and  folly"  and  ended,  "  /  scorn 
such  soft-mouthed  babblers"  The  third  act  (still  un- 
written) he  assured  her  would  be  the  most  tremendous 
of  the  five. 

His  own  observation,  helped  by  hints  from  the 
neighbours,  had  taught  him  very  soon  that  he  was 


A  Study  in  'Temptations.  225 

living  on  charity,  and  a  sense  of  gratitude  to  the 
Battles,  no  less  than  his  own  self-pride,  filled  him 
with  a  desperate  ambition  to  be  independent,  and 
make  a  name.  His  father  had  been  that  sad  anomaly, 
an  accountant  with  a  literary  faculty ;  his  mother  was 
a  poetess,  who  died  in  her  effort  to  rhyme  "  love  "  with 
"  drudgery."  From  both  parents  he  inherited  a  desire 
for  the  vague,  and  a  disgust  for  the  tangible. 

"  Have  you  no  pride  ?  "  he  said  to  Jane  one  day, 
when  she  had  seemed  more  amused  than  awed  by  his 
ambitious  ideas. 

"  We  must  beware  of  pride,"  said  Jane,  who  hoped 
she  sounded  humble. 

"  That  is  the  right  sort  of  pride — to  feel  that  you 
come  of  honest  people,  and  must  bring  no  shame  to 
them,"  said  the  boy,  hotly.  "  I  am  not  going  to  be 
the  pauper  of  the  tamily  !  " 

"  But  you  are  a  genius,"  said  Jane.  "  How  can 
you  expect  to  be  rich  when  you  are  a  genius  ?  I  think 
you  are  very  discontented." 

De  Boys  sighed,  but,  remembering  her  good  qualities 
as  a  fighter,  pitied  her  weak  sex  and  not  her  poor 
spirit. 

Some  months  after  the  foregoing  conversation,  the 
curate  of  the  parish,  driven  to  his  wits'  end  by  the 
increasing  wants  of  an  increasing  family,  was  inspired 
to  offer  young  Mauden  instruction  in  the  Classics, 
in  exchange  for  Miss  Caroline's  milk  and  butter.  At 
first  she  had  shrunk  from  this  nefarious  traffic  in  dairy 
produce  and  the  Pagan  authors,  but  no  sooner  had  her 
common  sense  assured  her  that  the  plan  was  hugely 
to  the  lad's  advantage,  than  she  became  as  strongly 
convinced  ot  its  innocence  as  she  had  been  of  its 


226  A  Study  in   temptations. 

impiety.  She  soothed  her  father's  unreasonable  pre- 
judices, which  were  not  in  disfavour  of  learning  as 
learning,  but  of  the  time  wasted  in  its  acquisition. 
If,  as  she  pointed  out,  De  Boys  worked  at  his  books 
when  the  rest  of  the  family  were  sleeping,  and  //"the 
curate  had  no  better  equivalent  than  Latin  and  Greek 
to  offer  in  exchange  for  food,  and  //"he  was  too  proud 

to  accept  it  as  a  gift Her  opening  statement 

alone  occupied  forty-five  minutes.  Battle,  who  had 
set  his  face  against  De  Boys  "poking  out  his  eyes 
wi'  night  work,"  and  could  find  no  words  to  express 
his  mean  opinion  of  the  dead  languages  as  weighed 
against  fresh  butter,  relented  at  the  first  harrowing 
picture  conjured  up  to  his  imagination,  by  Miss 
Caroline's  ingenious  hints  of  the  curate's  half-fed 
family.  Her  last  mournful  prophecy  that  the  unhappy 
man's  two  girls  would  die  of  consumption  before  the 
year  was  out,  and  the  baby  have  "rickets,"  was  so 
soul-piercing,  that  the  worthy  farmer  not  only  gave 
his  consent  to  the  bargain  in  debate,  but  even  admitted, 
that  the  curate  might  not  be  a  prophet  in  sheep's 
clothing  of  the  type  we  are  so  expressly  warned  against 
in  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount. 

De  Boys,  whose  burrs  of  knowledge  picked  up  in 
the  Town  Library,  and  in  the  local  "Academy  for 
Young  Gentlemen,"  had  only  served  to  tease  alike 
his  intellect  and  his  spirit,  saw  a  special  Providence 
in  the  tutor,  who  was  thus  dropped,  as  it  were,  from 
heaven  for  his  guidance.  He  hardly  knew  whither 
his  thoughts  and  plans  were  leading  him :  the  some- 
thing ahead  was  so  vague  in  outline,  and  so  far  away, 
that  though  he  daily  approached  it  nearer,  it  only 
seemed  part  of  the  general  distance,  the  bit  of  high 


A  Study  in   'Temptations.  227 

mountain  beyond  many  mountains,  many  roads  and 
valleys.  For  the  present  he  only  knew  he  must  work 
— work  early  and  late,  never  despairing,  yet  never 
hoping  too  high — striving  to  do  his  best,  but  leaving 
it  for  others  to  say  how  good  that  best  might  be. 
Had  he  a  talent,  and  was  it  the  one  he  most  coveted 
in  the  world  ? — Would  he  ever  be  a  scholar  ?  At 
last  one  day,  between  blushes  and  stammers,  he  asked 
his  tutor  whether — after  thirty  years  or  so  of  close 
application — he  would  know  something.  The  Rev. 
Fitz  Ormond  O'Nelligan  was  one  of  those  rare  men, 
who,  void  of  personal  pretensions,  are  big  with 
ambition  for  their  friends.  He  slapped  his  pupil  on 
the  back  with  such  force  that  had  De  Boys  been  a 
student  of  the  weakling  order,  his  earthly  career  would 
have  ended  on  the  spot. 

"  You  will  be  the  foinest  Grecian  in  England,"  he 
said — "  that  is  to  say,  if  ye'll  only  be  patient.  At  the 
Universitees  now,  the  cry  is  all  for  mere  lads,  and  a 
text  which  Bentlee  would  have  approached  with  awe 
and  riverince,  and  given  the  best  years  of  his  loife  too, 
is  now  cobbled  up  by  any  schoolboy  in  six  weeks  or 
less.  Avoid  all  such  immoralitee.  Fasten  your  oies 
on  the  gloreeous  examples  of  the  past,  and  if  you  are 
not  noticed  by  this  generation,  there  will  be  some 
roise  up  in  the  future,  who  will  call  your  memoree 
blessed." 

"  What  for  ?  "  said  De  Boys,  who  had  fortunately 
mastered  the  art  of  grinning  inside. 

"  For  being  the  one  scholar,"  said  O'Nelligan, 
solemnly,  "  who  had  the  humanitee  to  keep  his 
wisdom  out  of  print,  and  who  did  not  regard  the 
great  masterpieces  of  antiquitee  as  so  many  door- 


228  A  Study  In  'Temptations. 

posts  for  every  dog  to  defile.  The  simile  is  used 
by  Erasmus." 

This  encouragement,  delivered  in  O'Nelligan's 
most  impressive  manner  (impossible  to  describe,  and 
only  to  be  imagined  by  those  who  may  have  en- 
countered an  Irishman  with  the  blood  of  two  kings, 
eighteen  earls,  and  a  Christian  martyr  in  his  veins), 
gave  De  Boys  the  self-confidence  which  he  was  too 
modest  to  assume  on  his  own  warrant.  It  must  be 
owned,  however,  that  his  tutor's  instruction  was, 
though  solid,  excessively  dull.  The  one  consuming 
passion  of  O'Nelligan's  life  was  grammar,  and  for  his 
pupil's  leisure  moments  he  had  invented  a  game  on 
Comparative  Syntax,  which,  in  his  judgment,  tran- 
scended chess,  and  threw  whist  on  its  death-bed. 
Mauden  felt,  therefore,  to  his  own  dismay,  a  some- 
thing not  wholly  unlike  relief  when,  after  three  years 
of  hard  reading,  the  excellent  man  confessed  that  he 
had  taught  him  what  he  could,  and  that  the  time  was 
now  come  for  him  to  show  his  mettle  at  the  Univer- 
sity. De  Boys  rushed  home,  and  with  characteristic 
impetuosity  blurted  out  at  the  dinner-table  that  he 
was  going  to  Oxford. 

"  What  time  do  you  start  ? "  said  the  gentle  Miss 
Caroline,  who  wondered  whether  his  journey  could 
have  anything  to  do  with  the  cow. 

"  To  Oxford  !  "  thundered  his  uncle.  "  To  Ox- 
ford !  This  comes  of  listening  to  a  curate's  great 
swelling  words  of  vanity.  You  know  what  the 
Apostle  Paul  saith,  that  those  who  seemed  to  be 
somewhat,  in  conference  added  nothing  to  him. 
Take  heed  by  his  experience.  To  Oxford  !  And 
what  will  you  find  there  ?  The  lust  of  the  eye,  the 


A  Study  in  'Temptations.  229 

pride  of  life,  and  the  vain  pursuit  of  vainer  knowledge. 
The  wise  using  their  wisdom  to  confound  the  weak, 
working,  not  to  the  glory  of  God,  but  for  the  amaze- 
ment of  the  sinner  j  each  man  a  law  unto  himself, 
and  all  in  conflict  with  the  powers  that  be.  Let  me 
hear  no  more  blether  about  Oxford  !  " 

Having  finished  his  harangue,  which  he  had  de- 
livered with  such  fluency  that  Miss  Caroline  suspected 
it  had  long  been  prepared  for  some  such  crisis,  he  left 
the  room.  De  Boys,  a  little  pale  but  not  less  de- 
termined in  expression,  went  about  his  usual  afternoon 
employment,  which,  since  it  had  all  to  do  with  the 
farm,  made  it  seem  as  though  "  Up-at-Battle's  "  were, 
after  all,  the  one  reality  in  life,  and  his  dream  of  a 
University  career,  a  dream  indeed,  nay  more,  the  very 
town  of  Oxford  a  figment  of  his  imagination.  At 
tea-time  he  did  not  feel  hungry  j  he  walked  instead 
to  his  favourite  peak  on  the  clifF,  and  sat  there,  gazing 
gloomily  at  the  dancing  sea.  He  was  roused  by  a  tap 
on  his  shoulder  :  he  turned  and  saw  Jane. 


n. 

WHICH   CONTAINS   SOME   SERIOUS   VANITY. 

JANE  had  started  from  her  home  with  her  hair  in  a 
plait,  but  the  wind,  her  quick  walking,  and  her  natural 
impatience  of  restraint,  had  shaken  it  free,  and  it  now 
hung,  neither  curled  nor  crimped,  yet  for  from  straight, 
in  one  lively,  glimmering  mass  below  her  waist.  Her 
gown  was  of  white  cotton,  and  was  so  clean  that  it 
still  smelt  of  the  ironing-board,  and  so  outgrown  that 
it  did  not  reach  her  ankles  by  an  inch, — perhaps  more. 
The  ankles,  however,  were  innocent,  and  did  not  fear 
the  light  of  day.  A  wide-brimmed  hat  concealed  the 
upper  part  of  her  face,  and  only  left  visible  the  tip  of 
a  lift-upward  nose,  a  round  chin  and  a  finely-cut,  but 
still  childish  mouth.  Her  cheeks  and  throat,  though 
delicate  in  grain,  were  well  browned,  and  while  by  no 
means  rustic  in  mien,  she  looked  what  indeed  she 
was — a  daughter  of  the  sun  and  rain.  Jane  was  not 
beautiful ;  or  rather,  there  was  too  much  strangeness 
in  her  beauty,  to  make  her  seem  so  at  first  sight : 
reddish  hair  and  a  dusky  face  make  an  odd  combina- 
tion. There  was  an  atmosphere  of  strength  and 
sweetness  about  her  which  swept  over  the  heart-sick 
De  Boys  like  a  mountain  breeze ;  he  drew  a  long 
breath,  and  wondered  at  the  change  in  the  weather. 

"  It  is  time  to  go  home,"  he  said.     She  swallowed 
930 


A  Study  in   Temptations.  231 

her  mortification  :  she  had  sought  him  in  order  to 
offer  her  sympathy. 

"  Why  don't  you  go,  then  ?  "  she  said,  as  promptly. 

He  made  several  thrusts  at  the  meek  earth  with  his 
heavy  walking-stick.  "  You  know,"  he  said,  "  your 
grandfather  does  not  like  you  to  be  out  late." 

"  I  can  fight  my  own  battles,"  said  Jane,  tossing 
her  head. 

De  Boys  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  tried  to  frown 
down  his  rising  colour ;  he  also  turned  on  his  heel 
and  walked  away. 

"  De  Boys,"  she  said,  pursuing — "  PC  Boys  ...  I 
suppose  you  think  I  am  a  cat  ?  " 

"  I  hate  cats,"  he  said,  evasively. 

"Do  you  hate^r"' 

The  pause  which  followed  seemed  borrowed  from 
eternity.  "  I  could  hate  you,"  he  said ;  "  but,  as  it 
happens,  I  do  not." 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  ugly  ?  All  the  girls  say  I 
am  a  fright ! "  Her  smile  had  a  crook  at  each  end  : 
one  signified  amusement,  the  other  contempt. 

"  I  have  never  thought  about  your  looks,"  said  De 
Boys,  with  more  honesty  than  discretion.  "  I  suppose 
you  are  all  right.  But  in  any  case  I  would  never  call 
you  hideous  ! " 

Jane  had  a  longing  to  be  thought  pretty.  Her 
ideal  was  the  sweet  portrait  of  a  young  kdy  (on 
porcelain)  which  hung  in  a  photographer's  window 
she  knew  of,  and  which  represented  a  divine  creature 
with  blue  eyes,  pink  cheeks,  and  blonde  hair,  waved 
and  parted  Madonna- wise.  If  she  might  only  look 
like  that !  She  had  a  fatal  admiration  for  the  con- 
ventional type  angelic,  being  neither  old  enough  nor 


232  A  Study  in   Temptations. 

experienced  enough  to  know,  that  holiness  occasionally 
treads  the  human  countenance  on  crow's  feet. 

"  How  do  you  like  me  best  ?  "  she  said.  "  This 
way"  (she  showed  her  profile),  "or  that  way?  " 
(She  looked  him  straight  in  the  face.) 

He  gazed.  "  Are  your  eyes  blue  or  brown  ?  "  he 
said  :  "  in  some  lights  they  are  brown,  but  that  may 
be  the  effect  of  your  lashes." 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  "  they  are  blue." 

"They  remind  me  of  purple  heather,"  said  De 
Boys,  with  a  certain  dreaminess. 

"  Good  gracigus  !  "  said  Jane,  blushing. 

"And  your  mouth,"  he  went  on,  warming  to  the 
subject,  "is " 

"  My  mouth  is  a  straight  line,"  she  said,  sharply. 
"  And  now  we  must  make  haste  ! "  She  started 
ahead  and  began  to  hum.  The  first  strains  were  a 
reminiscence  of  "Pleasant  are  Thy  courts  below," 
but,  as  the  melody  swelled,  it  found  words  which 
were  De  Boys's  own,  and  which  were  these : — 

"Love  is  a  bubble, 
Love  is  a  trouble, 
Love  is  a  sigh, 
And  love  is  a  grin. 
Love  is  sweet  honey, 
Love  is  cold  money, 
Love  is  a  lie, 
And  love  is  a  sin. 

Love  is  a  jig — 

So  tread  you  a  measure ; 
Love  is  a  dirge — 

So  fill  you  with  grief; 
Love  is  bright  wine — 

To  quicken  your  pleasure ; 
Love's  the  North  Wind — 

And  Man  the  dead  leaf." 


A  Study  in  ^Temptations.  233 

This  effusion  had  been  rejected  by  the  editor  of  the 
Brentmore^  Haddlngton^  and  Mertford  Express  on  the 
ground  that  it  was  "  too  reckless  "  j  but  Jane  thought 
it  extremely  fine.  Once,  and  only  once  in  the  course 
of  her  singing,  she  stole  a  glance  at  her  companion. 

De  Boys  was  tall  and  straight,  of  careless  but  not 
awkward  bearing.  In  countenance  he  looked  like  a 
cherub  who  had  talked  long  hours  with  Puck — his 
expression  was  at  once  so  subtle,  so  artless,  and  so 
discreet.  A  chuckle  lurked  in  the  deep  recesses  of 
his  eye,  but  the  imp  rarely  ventured  to  the  surface. 
His  nose  had  an  eager  and  inquiring  air,  as  though 
it  were  ever  scenting  for  an  undiscovered  country  j 
his  beardless  lips  were  pliant,  and  told  his  kind, 
pleasure-loving,  and  generous  disposition. 

He  was  the  first  to  make  a  remark.  "  I  have  been 
thinking,"  he  said,  "  what  your  mouth  is  like,"  he 
blushed — "  it  is  like  a  kiss  made  incarnate." 

"  I  hate  kissing,"  said  Jane,  hurriedly.  "  I  was  not 
born  under  a  kissing  star.  Kissing  is  silly.** 

<c  I  fear  it  is,"  sighed  De  Boys. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  fear"  said  Jane.  "But  what 
does  it  mean,  or  what  is  the  use  of  doing  things  which 
mean  so  little  ?  " 

"I  think,"  said  De  Boys,  trying  to  look  un- 
prejudiced, "  kissing  might  mean  a  great  deal  if — if 
the  people  cared  for  each  other." 

"  Have  you  ever  kissed  any  one  and  meant  a  great 
deal  ?  "  said  Jane,  with  anxiety. 

De  Boys  glanced  up  at  the  sky.  "  The  clouds  are 
brooding,"  he  said.  "  I  would  not  wonder  if  it  rained. 
No,  it  is  not  my  custom  to  kiss  women.  I  hate  it 
quite  as  much  as  you  do." 


234  ^  Study  in   Temptations. 

She  seemed  sceptical.  "  Ah,"  she  said,  "  but  men 
are  different." 

"  How  do  you  know,"  he  said,  quickly. 

"  I  cannot  say  how  I  know  it,"  she  answered, 
"because  I  must  have  known  it  ever  since  I  was 
born." 

"  Let  us  talk  of  something  else,"  said  De  Boys. 

"You  began  this.  Kisses  and  all  such  nonsense 
never  come  into  my  head.  I — I  always  skip  the 
love-making  in  novels."  She  uttered  this  astonishing 
falsehood  with  cloudless  eyes. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  De  Boys. 

"  Why  do  you  say  { oh '  ?  I  suppose  you  don't 
believe  me.  I  do  not  care  j  if  you  wish  to  quarrel, 
quarrel.  I  will  not  say  another  word."  She  turned 
away  her  head,  but  De  Boys  heard  the  tears  in  her 
voice. 

"Jane,"  he  said,  "I  told  you  a  lie  just  now.  I 
once  kissed  Lizzie  Cass,  but  it  was  very  long  ago." 

"  When  ?  "  said  Jane. 

"  At  the  hay-making.  She  stood  in  my  way,  and, 
somehow — well,  you  know  how  these  things  happen ! " 

"  No,  I  don't ! "  she  said,  with  indignation. 

"  She  isn't  at  all  pretty  j  and  it  was  only  her  ear  ! 
Your  ears  are  like  pink  shells.  But,  unhappily,  they 
never  get  in  the  way." 

"  I  should  hope  not,"  said  Jane  j  "  I  want  no  kisses 
spared  from  Lizzie  Casses  ! " 

"  Then,  if  I  had  not " 

"But  you  have,"  she  said,  "and  that  ends  it." 

"It  was  months  ago,"  murmured  De  Boys,  "and  I 
have  changed  since  then.  Life  looks  differently." 

"  After  all,"  said  Jane,  "  you  were  very  honest  to 


A  Study  in   Temptations.  235 

own  it.  But  as  for  Lizzie  Cass,  I  always  said  she 
was  a  bold  minx.  She  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  her- 
self!" 

"Undoubtedly  I  was  to  blame.  I  ought  not  to 
have  done  it.  I  should  have  had  more  self-respect." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Jane,  "  it  is  a  girl's  part  to  behave 
herself.  But  whenever  there  is  kissing,  either  at  the 
hay-making  or  at  any  other  time,  I  have  noticed  that 
it  is  always  some  girl  who  starts  it." 

"That,"  said  De  Boys,  "may  be  true.  But  you 
are  not  like  other  girls." 

"  De  Boys,"  she  said,  faintly  j  "  please  don't  think 
I  am  better  than  I  am.  I  deceived  you  just  now  j  I 
did  not  mean " 

His  face  grew  hard,  his  voice  cold,  his  eye  was  dis- 
mayed. "  Do  you  mean,"  he  said,  "  that  you  have 
told  me  a  lie  ?  What  was  it  about  ?  " 

"  Oh,  forgive  me,"  she  said,  half  crying  ;  "  I  cannot 
think  what  made  me  say  it.  But  it  was  not  the 
truth — I  do  not  always  skip  the  love-making  in  novels." 

He  stalked  on  with  darkened  brows. 

"  You  lied  to  me,"  he  said ;  "  it  is  the  principle  I 
am  thinking  of.  I  never  thought  you  could  lie — even 
for  a  good  purpose." 

"  Jane  put  her  lips  together.  "  It  was  a  little  one,** 
she  murmured. 

"  Ah,  but  now  I  know  you  are  at  least  capable  of 
deceiving  me,  how  can  I  ever  trust  you  so  absolutely 
again  ?  "  His  voice  had  a  mournful  cadence. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said  j  "  but — look  at  me." 

To  look  at  her  were  fatal,  and  he  knew  it.  He 
stared  undaunted  and  with  resolution  right  in  front  of 
him. 


236  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

"  Look  at  me  !  "  she  entreated. 

"Why?" 

"  I  want  to  see  whether  you  are  so  angry  as  you 
sound." 

"Angry  is  not  the  word,"  he  said,  "but  grieved 
and  disappointed.  You  were  my  Ideal." 

She  began  to  cry.  "If  you  had  told  me  I  was  your 
Ideal,"  she  said,  "I  would  have  been  more  careful. 
It  is  so  much  easier  to  be  ideal  when  you  know  that 
some  one  appreciates  you." 

Jane  had  not  yet  grasped  the  truth,  that  man  is  a 
spectacle  for  angels,  and  that  he  can  carry  his  heroism, 
his  noble  sentiments,  and  his  virtue  into  a  wilderness, 
and  still  not  feel  that  he  is  being  heroic  and  sublime 
for  nothing — a  suspicion,  however,  which  will  assail 
him  for  more  causes  than  he  would  care  to  count,  if 
he  look  for  mortal  appraisement  only.  But  love  is 
two-headed  egoism,  and  to  Jane  the  Ideal  meant  De 
Boys's  ideas. 

She  continued — "  I  do  not  want  you  to  think  me 
perfect  j  because  I  am  not,  and  I  could  not  be,  even  to 
please  you.  I  am  just  like  other  girls." 

"Well,"  said  De  Boys,  at  length,  "perhaps  I  ought 
to  be  glad  of  anything  that  makes  you  more  like  me — 
that  puts  you  nearer  my  level." 

Jane  looked  troubled  j  she  was  beginning  to  realise, 
though  dimly,  the  responsibilities  of  an  Ideal. 

"  De  Boys,"  she  said,  "  did  you  ever  think  that  I 
was  better  than  yourself  ?  " 

"Better  !  It  was  not  a  question  of  comparison  at 
all." 

"  And  now,"  said  Jane  —  "  what  do  you  think 
now  ? " 


A  Study  in  Temptations  237 

He  hesitated.  "  And  now  ?  "  she  asked  again. 
They  had  reached  a  gate  which  led  into  a  kind  or 
shrubbery.  As  she  passed  through  her  skirt  caught 
on  one  of  the  spikes.  He  was  awkward  and  slow  at 
releasing  her,  and  when  they  started  to  walk  again,  he 
lagged  behind. 

"  Are  you  tired  ?  "  said  Jane. 

"No." 

"Are  you  angry  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Very  well  j  then  we  are  not  friends.  But  I 
would  rather  be  so  than  have  deceit  between  us. 
And  you  may  as  well  know  the  worst  of  me  at  once. 
J  am  much  plainer  in  the  face  than  you  think.  Take 
a  good  look  at  me  this  way." 

She  pulled  off  her  hat,  tugged  back  her  magnificent 
hair,  and  in  her  anxiety  to  appear  at  her  worst,  all  but 
made  a  grimace.  De  Boys  did  not  seem  so  repelled 
as  she  had  expected. 

"Take  a  good  look,"  she  repeated,  faintly.  "I 
shall  never  have  the  courage  to  do  this  again." 

"I  am  angry,"  he  said,  looking,  "because  I  hate 
myself  and  because  you  are  still  as  far  above  me 
as " 

She  advanced  a  step  towards  him.  "I  am  not 
above  you,  De  Boys,"  she  said,  " I  am  here" 

He  needed  no  second  reminder,  but  with  the  agility 
of  a  practised  lover,  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her  at  random,  and  with  an  ardour  which,  though 
wholly  beyond  the  measure  of  her  own  childish  affec- 
tion, filled  her  with  nameless  fear. 

"  There  !  "  he  said  j  "  but  don't  ask  me  to  look  at 
you  again.  That's  kissing." 


238  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

Jane  fixed  her  eyes  on  his  with  something  like 
reproach.  "  I  was  happier  before,"  she  said  ;  "  much 
happier.  I  almost  wish  you  had  not." 

"  But  I  love  you,"  said  De  Boys. 

"  Still,"  said  Jane,  "  I  wish  you  had  not.  I  shall 
remember  it." 

"So  shall  I,"  said  De  Boys. 

"But  I  only  want  to  remember  that  I  love  you," 
said  Jane ;  "  and  I  want  to  remember  it  without 
distractions,  and  without  kisses,  which,  after  all,  may 
only  mean  that  I  am  standing  in  your  way." 

«  Dearest ! " 

"  Yet  I  am  glad,"  she  went  on — "  I  am  glad  God 
made  me  a  woman." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  That  you  might  love  me." 

Once  more  a  spell  was  in  the  air,  but  this  time  she 
had  experience. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  quickly,  "  we  shall  be  late,  and 
the  geese  will  want  their  supper." 

Even  thus  does  prose  trample  on  the  skirts  of 
passion.  They  hurried  on  into  the  gathering  twi- 
light, on  and  on.  At  the  hill  they  joined  hands  and 
ran,  kicking,  in  imagination,  the  world  (of  their 
imagination),  in  front  of  them  as  they  went. 


m. 

TOUCHING   THE    MASCULINE   CONSCIENCE    AND   THE 
FEMININE    REASON. 

FARMER  BATTLE,  meanwhile,  had  retired  to  the 
solitude  of  his  own  chamber,  to  review  a  domestic 
situation,  which,  as  Miss  Caroline  had  rightly  guessed, 
he  had  foreseen,  and  to  some  extent  prepared  for.  It 
may  be,  however,  that  he  had  overlooked  the  serious 
difficulties  of  the  case,  in  the  seemly  joy  of  composing 
a  speech  which  would  crush  it ;  at  all  events,  he  saw 
plainly  enough  now,  that  the  trouble,  so  far  from  be- 
ing ended,  had  only  begun.  The  outlook  perplexed, 
worried,  and  distressed  him  more  than  his  dignity 
was  willing,  but  as  his  nerves  soon  forced  him,  to 
admit.  His  first  act,  therefore,  on  reaching  his  room 
was  to  pour  out  and  swallow  a  large  dose  of  a  noxious 
preparation  known  as  Gump's  Elixir^  and,  as  he  was 
able  to  gulp  this  down  with  comparatively  few  qualms, 
it  assured  him,  that  his  system  could  still  endure  the 
most  extraordinary  and  violent  shocks  without  sur- 
render. 

But  though  he  could  recall  the  physical  man  to 
duty,  his  mind  remained  in  rebellion,  and  he  sat 
down,  with  his  body  forward,  his  arms  resting  on  his 
knees,  and  his  hands  clasped,  the  picture  of  doubt  and 
embarrassment.  He  was  a  man  of  governed  but  primi- 
tive emotions,  and  knew  nothing  of  the  thousand-and- 

239 


240  A  Study  in   temptations. 

one  complications  and  combinations,  which  the  cultured 
mind  can  make  out  of  one  rough  passion  chopped  into 
polished  fragments.  His  love  was  love,  and  his  hate 
was  hate,  and  his  rage  was  rage  :  to  excite  either  one 
was  like  pulling  out  the  stop  of  an  organ. 

Like  most  proud  men  he  was  extremely  sensitive, 
and  he  had  been  quick  to  notice  his  nephew's  want  of 
interest  in  farm  matters  and  the  comfortable  home — 
the  home  which  Battle  himself  had  spent  his  days  in 
making,  and  which  was  the  crown  of  his  earthly 
labours.  The  old  man  did  not  desire — nor  indeed 
could  he  conceive — a  greater  happiness  than  to  stand 
in  his  porch,  and  see  the  smoke  rising  from  his 
tenants'  chimney-pots,  to  gaze  at  the  fine  barn  (once 
a  miserable  cowshed),  at  the  dairy,  and  at  the  model 
hen-house  built  after  his  own  design,  with  a  patent 
door  !  Every  twig  and  every  stone  on  the  estate  had 
its  value  and  association  for  him  ;  every  inch  of  the 
ground  knew  his  tread  ;  every  corner,  nook,  and 
cranny  stood  for  something  in  the  sum  of  his  ex- 
perience. But  De  Boys  could  sit  opposite  the  barn 
with  his  nose  in  a  book  j  he  accepted  the  dairy  as 
a  matter  of  course  j  he  talked  of  crops  and  prize 
bullocks  as  though  land  which  did  not  yield  crops, 
and  bullocks  which  did  not  win  prizes  were  things 
unheard  of  j  he  ate  his  good  fare  and  slept  between 
linen  sheets,  not  with  gratitude,  but  as  though  he 
would  have  been  very  scurvily  treated  if  he  did  not 
have  such  luxuries. 

All  this  was  a  never-failing  source  of  bitterness  to 
the  old  man  :  what  he  gave  he  gave  liberally ;  he 
only  asked,  when  his  gifts  were  accepted  so  freely, 
that  he  should  be  remembered  with  like  readiness  as 


A  Study  in   Temptations.  241 

the  giver.  There  was  certainly  nothing  unreasonable 
in  this  desire ;  it  was  a  very  natural  craving  for  some 
recognition  of  the  toil  and  endeavour,  the  heart-aches 
and  struggles  which  had  gone  to  the  making  of  his — 
as  it  must  to  every  man's — success.  The  race  is  not  to 
the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong,  and  if  it  is  the 
weak  and  the  slow  who  win,  how  is  it  done  save  by 
the  most  painful  efforts,  the  sternest  self-discipline, 
the  most  dogged  courage,  and  the  most  touching 
patience  ?  Battle,  unable  to  analyze  his  feelings,  was 
only  conscious  that  he  had  fought  a  hard  fight  for 
sixty  odd  years,  was  still  fighting,  and  not  one 
member  of  his  family  showed,  nor  ever  had  shown, 
the  smallest  knowledge  of  it.  The  women  he  for- 
gave, for  two  (his  wife  and  his  eldest  daughter)  were 
dead,  one  was  a  careful  housekeeper,  and  the  other, 
a  slip  of  a  girl,  but  De  Boys — he  could  not  forgive 
De  Boys.  .  That  his  experience  was  the  common  one 
of  many  husbands  and  fathers  only  aggravated  the 
wound :  he  wished,  in  pardonable  if  foolish  pride, 
to  think  that  his  family  were  altogether  exceptional, 
patterns  of  goodness,  sobriety,  discretion  and — quality 
so  necessary  to  domestic  comfort — obedience. 

Much,  no  doubt,  was  to  be  said  for  the  farmer,  but 
De  Boys  was  not  without  defence.  He  had  appeared 
on  the  scene  when  things  were  prosperous,  and  he  was 
still  an  untravelled  youth  of  twenty ;  he  was  therefore 
quite  unable  to  contrast  the  old  farm  with  the  new, 
or  properly  estimate  a  force  of  character  which  he 
could  only  know  to  be  uncommon,  by  mixing  with 
the  world.  In  De  Boys's  green  judgment  all  elderly 
relatives  were  severe,  a  shade  despotic,  and  a  little  too 
religious  ;  all  women  mended  socks,  made  incomparable 
17 


242  A  Study  in   'Temptations. 

pies,  and  scolded  incessantly ;  all  girls  spent  too  much 
time  titivating^  were  feeble  in  argument,  yet  pleasing 
enough  in  their  way.  These  opinions  he  expressed 
with  much  confidence,  and,  boy-like,  was  so  proud  of 
his  power  of  criticism,  that  he  forgot  he  was  directing 
it  against  the  beings  he  loved  best  in  the  world. 
Boy-like,  too,  he  was  not  only  very  shy  of  showing 
his  affection,  but  he  did  not  even  know  that  he  had 
it.  Healthy-minded  lads  do  not  sit  brooding  over 
their  instincts  till  they  are  hatched  into  Christian 
virtues  and  deadly  sins :  their  conscience  warns  them 
which  to  follow  and  which  to  shun,  but  the  why, 
the  wherefore,  and  the  psychological  meaning  of  it  all 
does  not  trouble  them  in  the  least.  Thus,  while  De 
Boys  would  have  defended  his  uncle  with  the  last  drop 
of  blood  in  his  body,  he  would  not  have  been  able  to 
say  just  why.  From  this  it  will  be  seen,  how  far  the 
farmer  and  the  aspiring  scholar  were  from  a  mutual 
understanding. 

Battle's  strongest  impulse,  after  the  scene  at  the 
dinner-table,  was  to  order  an  immediate  bonfire  of 
all  the  Pagan  authors  in  the  house,  and  if  it  had 
been  in  his  power  to  include  the  curate  among  them, 
it  is  not  hard  to  guess  how  he  would  have  dealt  with 
that  amiable  gentleman.  To  think  that  De  Boys 
should  prefer  the  example  of  a  weak-kneed  parson 
(who  could  hardly  keep  his  own  body  and  soul 
together),  before  that  of  his  lawful  guardian,  whose 
flourishing  circumstances  were  the  best  possible  proof 
of  his  fitness  to  advise  !  Yet  De  Boys  was  a  clever 
lad,  apt  and  well-spoken — if  he  liked  books  better 
than  the  fields,  he  had  inherited  the  taste  from  his 
pitiable  father.  For  a  moment  Battle  wavered.  If 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  243 

he  could  call  to  mind  one,  even  one,  scholar  who  was 
able  to  show  gumption  at  a  crisis  and  keep  a  family  in 
comfort,  he  would  let  the  boy  go  his  own  gait.  He 
was  searching  his  experience  for  such  a  prodigy  when 
a  doubt  assailed  him  :  was  not  learning  sinful  ?  He 
consulted  the  third  chapter  of  Genesis  and  read 
no  further.  Evidently,  knowledge  was  not  for 
man. 

The  farmer's  relief  was  unbounded :  he  could  not 
only  make  a  virtue  of  his  own  ignorance,  but  stand 
opposed  to  his  nephew  on  the  vantage-ground  of  a 
great  moral  principle.  He  had  a  text — "  Te  shall  not 
eat  of  it " ;  he  could  not  be  held  responsible  for  the 
hard  sayings  of  Scripture,  his  only  duty  was  to  ex- 
pound, and,  when  necessary,  enforce  them.  His  mind 
was  fixed :  he  had  settled  the  matter  for  ever — there 
should  be  no  more  weak  relenting,  no  more  teasing 
of  conscience.  He  knelt  down  by  his  bed,  and, 
thanking  God  for  giving  him  light  on  the  subject, 
was  studiously  careful  not  to  ask  Him  for  more :  he 
even  besought  the  Almighty  to  restrain  his  eyes  from 
wandering  to  other  texts,  which  might  seem  to  contra- 
dict the  sound  doctrine  of  the  one  before  him.  He 
wound  up  by  hinting,  that  if  the  Almighty  saw  fit 
to  remove  the  Rev.  Fitz  Ormond  O'Nelligan  to 
another  parish — or  sphere — he  (Samuel  Battle)  could 
only  admire  His  divine  wisdom  and  clemency. 
Strengthened  and  refreshed  by  this  prayer,  he  rose 
from  his  knees,  and,  almost  smiling,  opened  the  door 
at  which  Miss  Caroline  had  been  softly  tapping  for 
some  seconds. 

"Well?  "he  said. 

Miss  Caroline  studied  his  face  with  a  half-fearful, 


244  ^  Study  in  Temptations. 

half-imploring  expression.  She  had  come  to  make 
intercession  for  young  Mauden. 

"I  want  to  say  something  about  the  boy,"  she 
began.  If  the  circumstances  were  ordinary,  her  heart, 
at  all  events,  was  heroic,  and  it  is  the  heart  which 
makes  the  situation. 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  said,"  said  her  father, 
sternly  j  "  leave  him  to  me.  There  has  been  enough 
of  women's  meddling  as  it  is." 

"  I  have  a  notion,"  she  faltered. 

"  A  notion !  The  whole  house  is  swarming  wi' 
notions.  A  man  cannot  sleep  nor  eat  for  them :  they 
sour  the  milk  and  turn  his  bread  to  ashes  j  they  con- 
front him  on  his  threshold  and  break  in  upon  his 
converse  with  the  Lord  " — here  he  fixed  his  iron-grey 
eye  on  Miss  Caroline — "  they  make  his  own  flesh  and 
blood  a  heaviness  and  his  children's  children  as  vipers  ! " 

"The  Lord  forbid  that  a  notion  o'  mine  should 
work  such  mischief!"  said  Miss  Caroline,  drawing 
down  her  lip. 

"  I  have  no  fault  to  find  wi'  you,  Caroline,"  said 
Battle,  in  a  milder  tone,  "  but  I  do  say  that  you  ha' 
pampered  that  boy  till  he's  fit  for  nought,  but  to  sip 
tea  wi'  curates,  and  lose  his  liver  seeking  after  lost 
Niobes ! w 

He  had  once  overheard  a  brief  conversation  between 
O'Nelligan  and  Mauden,  in  the  course  of  which  they 
had  referred  to  the  lost  Niobe  of  ./Eschylus.  This 
mystery,  Battle  had  no  doubt,  was  a  heathen  god 
whom  the  a". Id  was  all  the  richer  for  losing.  "The 
difference. '  he  went  on,  "so  far  as  I  can  see  between 
a  man  wl'  notions  and  a  man  without  'em  is  this — the 
man  without  *em  pays  the  bill!  " 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  245 

"  I  see  no  harm  in  book-learning,"  said  Miss  Caro- 
line, firmly  j  "  we  are  told  to  add  to  faith,  virtue,  and 
to  virtue,  knowledge,  and " 

Her  father  waved  his  hand.  "  Beware  of  twisting 
the  Word  of  God,"  he  said,  hurriedly  j  "  there's  no 
telling  what  mischief  may  come  of  perking  up  on  a 
false  meaning.  I  don't  hold  wi'  women  quoting 
texts,"  he  added,  "and  I  doubt  the  wisdom  of 
dragging  Scripture  in  by  the  ears  whether  it  will 
or  no.  Ten  to  one  if  it  don't  bite  you  for  your 
pains  !  " 

"Aye  !  "  said  Miss  Caroline,  "and  for  that  reason 
ministers  should  have  learning."  She  drew  a  long 
breath  and  flushed.  "Why  shouldn't  De  Boys  be 
a  minister  ? " 

Battle  plunged  into  thought.  He  never,  in  his  own 
phrase,  "  fooled  round  the  edge  of  an  idea." 

"  A  minister  !  "  he  said,  at  last.  "  What  sort  of  a 
minister  ?  If  De  Boys  is  the  kind  to  be  yanked 
about  by  deacons  he  hasn't  much  of  the  Battle  stock 
in  him ! " 

"There's  room  for  all  in  the  Church  of  England," 
said  Miss  Caroline.  "  A  doctrine  or  two  needn't 
stand  in  a  man's  way.  What's  doctrine  ?  Why 
should  De  Boys  call  himself  a  Dissenter  and  spoil 
his  chances,  poor  lad,  when  he  might  "just  as  well  be 
Broad  and  hold  his  own  wi'  the  best  ?  When  folks 
begin  to  quarrel  about  doctrine  they  are  really  spearin' 
at  politics.  Any  fool  knows  that !  " 

"  I  will  think  it  over,"  said  Battle  ;  "  but  I  could 
never  see  bone  of  my  bone  picked  bare  by  deacons. 
Whenever  I  see  a  deacon  I  always  think  of  the  roaring 
lion  seeking  whom  he  can  devour.  Look  at  Hoadley 


246  A  Study  in  'Temptations* 

— a  pleasant  enough  man  till  they  made  him  senior 
deacon.  There's  very  few  men,  Caroline,  that  can 
bear  authority  if  they  haven't  been  born  with  the 
shoulders  for  it.  If  you  gave  a  man  a  nose  who  had 
never  had  one,  he  would  be  blowing  it  all  day.  If  De 
Boys  can  see  his  way  to  do  without  deacons — well,  I 
will  think  it  over." 

Miss  Caroline  went  downstairs,  scolded  the  dairy- 
maid on  general  grounds,  called  Jane  to  task  for  tearing 
her  frock  the  Sunday  before,  hinted  of  dead  parents 
turning  in  their  grave,  made  a  pudding  with  as  little 
sugar  as  possible,  and  finally  withdrew  to  her  own 
room,  where  she  indulged  in  a  good  cry.  Heroism 
has  a  reaction. 

Battle,  however,  had  been  so  fascinated  by  the  idea 
of  De  Boys  entering  the  Church  and  "coming  the 
Rectory  "  on  his  own  account,  that  when  his  daughter 
had  left  him,  he  once  more  opened  his  Bible  and  found 
his  thumb  on  the  following  sentence  in  Isaiah — "  Their 
strength  is  to  sit  still" 

"  The  Lord's  will  be  done,"  he  murmured.  "  It  is 
not  for  me  to  thwart  the  working  of  the  Spirit.  If 
the  boy's  call  is  to  the  ministry,  he  must  obey  it  !  " 

It  would  be  tedious  to  recapitulate  the  numerous 
consultations,  plans,  and  hopes  of  which  De  Boys  was 
the  object,  not  only  for  days,  but  for  weeks  following. 
At  first  he  had  been  tempted  to  quarrel  with  the  pro- 
fession so  suddenly  forced  upon  him  :  his  religion,  like 
the  religion  of  the  young,  was  an  untried  force,  and, 
as  his  idea  of  God  was  somehow  associated  with  his 
Uncle  Battle,  it  was  largely  tempered  with  unutterable 
private  opinions.  But  though  he  had  often  questioned4 


A  Study  in   temptations.  247 

the  infallible  justice  of  the  Almighty  (with  regard  to 
fishing  on  Sundays  and  the  like),  his  faith  was  so  knit 
in  his  bones  that  it  was  more  valuable  as  a  ruling  prin- 
ciple than  any  wider  creed,  based  on  the  mere  mental 
acceptance  of  doctrinal  truths.  The  fear  of  God  was 
before  his  eyes  ;  the  prospect,  therefore,  of  becoming 
His  minister  put  no  strain  on  his  sincerity.  If  it 
failed  to  stir  his  enthusiasm  it  was  because  his  easy- 
going nature  hung  aloof  from  the  self-denial  and  hard 
work  which,  oddly  enough,  he  conceived  to  be  a 
clergyman's  portion. 

Where  his  books  had  formerly  been  ordered  aside 
for  the  most  trivial  domestic  duty,  he  was  now  frowned 
at  if  he  ventured  to  look  up  from  them  ;  if  he  showed 
the  smallest  disposition  to  levity,  the  farmer  would 
remind  him  that  it  was  time  to  put  away  childish 
things  and  reflect  on  the  dignity  of  his  calling :  at 
his  approach  gossip  was  silenced,  and  Baptismal  Re- 
generation, Predestination,  and  Justification  by  Faith 
became  the  lively  topics  of  conversation ;  if  he  be- 
trayed even  the  mildest  interest  in  "new  trouserings," 
references  would  be  made  to  Demas,  who  loved  the 
things  of  this  world,  and  to  the  young  man  who  had 
great  possessions.  He  began  to  see  that  a  reputation 
for  virtue  and  wisdom  (however  gratifying  to  one's 
vanity),  brings  with  it  pains  and  penalties  so  various, 
so  exquisite,  and  so  incessant,  that  Job  himself  would 
seem  a  false  type  of  persecuted  excellence,  since  he 
lived  longer  than  his  plagues.  De  Boys's  patience,  at 
no  time  of  remarkable  endurance,  would  not  have 
lasted  under  the  petty  but  fretting  annoyances  which 
now  formed  his  daily  lot,  and  which  promised  to  grow 
in  severity  as  he  advanced  in  grace,  if  his  determination 


248  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

to  go  to  Oxford  had  not  been  made  with  a  firm  resolve 
to  suffer  all  things  rather  than  foil  to  fulfil  it.  When 
the  time  came  to  leave  home,  he  went  with  a  sigh  of 
relief  so  heartfelt,  that  Miss  Caroline  mistook  it  for  a 
sob. 

"  The  plum-cake  is  just  inside  the  bag,"  she  whis- 
pered, "  but  the  currant  wine  is  at  the  bottom  of  the 
box.  I  didn't  put  it  on  top  because — as  you  are  going 
to  be  a  minister — it  would  not  look  well  if  the  lid  flew 
open  ! " 

He  heard  no  more,  for  the  driver  whipped  up  his 
horse,  and,  followed  by  tears,  blessings,  exhortations, 
and  warnings,  he  rode  off  in  the  market  cart  towards 
fame  and  the  railway  station.  He  was  so  lost  in  fair 
dreams  of  the  future  that  he  did  not  notice  Jane,  who, 
by  running  across  the  fields  and  jumping  a  few  ditches, 
had  managed  to  reach  a  certain  tree  which  commanded 
a  fine  view  of  the  high-road.  This  she  had  climbed, 
and  there  she  sat  on  a  branch  waiting  for  him  to  pass. 

But  while  he  did  not  see  her  for  dreaming,  she 
could  not  see  him  for  tears.  Thus  her  long  run,  and 
her  jumps,  and  her  climb  were  for  nothing. 

De  Boys,  however,  had  wished  her  farewell  the 
night  before,  and  he  had  felt  the  parting  to  the  best 
of  his  ability.  He  still  felt  it — dear,  sweet  little  Jane  ! 
(she  was  tall) — but  now  other  matters  were  naturally 
foremost  in  his  mind.  Jane,  woman-like,  utterly  un- 
able to  understand  this,  thought  him  very  unloving, 
and  decided  to  waste  no  more  of  her  affection  where 
it  was  not  wanted.  She  was  young — but  seventeen  in 
fact,  impulsive,  wilful,  passionately  fond  of  romances, 
but  singularly  practical  in  her  criticism  of  life  :  weep- 
ing for  her  heroines  as  heroines,  yet  scorning  them 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  249 

not  seldom  as  fools,  admiring  the  heroes,  yet  finding 
much  to  be  said  for  the  villains,  and  displaying,  for  her 
age,  sex,  and  inexperience,  an  unusual  desire  for  strict 
— indeed  rigorous — justice.  Even  now,  smarting 
under  De  Boys's  fancied  indifference,  she  blamed  her 
own  poverty  of  attractions,  not  his  callousness,  which, 
since  she  promised — to  the  seeing  eye — to  be  a  beau- 
tiful woman,  was  as  wrong-headed  and  feminine  as  it 
well  could  be. 

As  the  days  dragged  on  she  realized  how  much  De 
Boys  had  been  to  her,  how  much  of  her  supposed 
independence  had  rested  on  his  support,  how  much 
her  courage  had  fed  on  his  sympathy,  how  everything 
in  her  mind  which  gave  her  the  smallest  satisfaction 
was  not  her  own  at  all,  but  borrowed  from  him.  And 
now  he  was  gone,  it  seemed  as  though  the  earth  which 
she  trampled  on  as  a  right,  had  suddenly  slipped  away, 
and  left  her  without  a  footing,  to  sink,  and  sink,  and 
sink,  as  one  does  in  a  nightmare.  At  first  she  saw  a 
substitute  for  De  Boys  in  a  tow-headed  youth  who 
sang  in  the  chapel  choir,  and  she  talked  to  him  of  the 
books  she  read,  as  she  would  to  her  lover,  only  to  grow 
absent-minded,  however,  and  wake  to  catch  an  un- 
sympathetic and  wondering  eye  :  phrases,  jokes,  and 
little  words  full  of  meaning  to  herself  and  De  Boys 
lost  all  their  point  when  exchanged  with  her  few 
friends  in  the  village,  and  very  soon  she  learnt  the 
absolute  dissimilarity  in  minds,  and  how  very  little 
except  weakness  one  human  being  has  in  common 
with  another. 

Jane  had  always  found  such  balm  for  all  her  small 
troubles  in  being  understood  by  De  Boys,  which 
meant,  no  doubt,  that  he  saw  no  fault  in  her,  and 


250  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

made  a  grace  out  of  every  shortcoming — that  is  to 
say,  where  her  shortcomings  affected  others.  He 
made  nicer  distinctions  in  her  offences  against  him- 
self. But  in  her  dealings  with  the  world  at  large  he 
always  proved  her  in  the  right,  even  when  she  knew 
herself  in  the  wrong,  and  thus  when  she  least  agreed 
with  him,  he  was  most  consoling.  True,  now  he  was 
absent,  he  wrote  to  her,  but  the  letters  were  for  family 
perusal,  and  even  though  "Do  not  forget  the  gulnea- 
pigj'  stood  for  "My  very  dearest^  how  I  long  to  see  you" 
it  was  a  flimsy  substitute  for  a  love-letter,  her  own, 
and  bristling  with  "  dearests  "  in  plain  English.  Gra- 
dually restraint  showed  itself  in  her  replies  :  the  guinea- 
pig  untimely  died,  De  Boys  adopted  a  more  learned 
tone,  Jane  found  him  more  difficult  to  answer,  she 
doubted  whether  she  loved  him,  and  grew  pale  at  the 
doubt  j  spent  whole  hours  trying  to  prove  that  she 
was  perfectly  happy  without  him,  and  whole  nights 
crying  because  she  was  not. 

When  she  heard  that  he  did  not  intend  to  return 
home  till  the  end  of  his  third  term,  she  made  no  com- 
ment, but  brought  her  lips  so  sharply  together,  that 
they  lost  their  look  of  childish  indecision  for  all  time. 


IV. 


IN   WHICH    ONE    LADY   TRIES    NATURE,   WHILE    TWO, 
DISCUSS    HUMANITY. 

ONE  afternoon,  in  the  following  long  vacation,  a  lady 
was  gathering  honeysuckle  from  a  hedge  in  a  field 
near  St.  Albans.  She  wore  a  pink  cambric  confection, 
artfully  relieved  with  old  Honiton  :  with  one  hand  she 
held  up  her  skirt  and  discovered  a  most  elaborate  silk 
petticoat  j  on  the  ground  by  her  side  was  a  lace  parasol 
and  a  pair  of  long  kid  gloves.  A  hat,  garnished  with 
velvet  orchids  and  silk  dandelions,  shaded  her  face,  and 
was  tied  under  her  chin  with  pale  green  ribbons  ;  her 
hair,  which  was  black  and  very  abundant,  was  loosely 
caught  up  by  a  silver  comb.  In  figure  she  was  tall 
and  gracious,  but  one  could  have  wished  that  her  hips 
had  more  of  a  jut  and  her  shoulders  less  an  air  of 
almost  masculine  resolution.  She  had  too  much  dis- 
tinction to  be  fashionable  and  too  much  style  to  be 
stylish  :  beyond  any  doubt  she  was  a  personage. 

She  had  filled  her  basket  with  the  flowers  when 
her  eyes  fell  on  a  fine  spray  just  beyond  her  reach. 
The  branch  of  a  tree  hung  over  the  hedge,  and,  by 
supporting  herself  on  this,  she  thought  it  might  be 
possible  to  clutch  at  the  prize.  She  was  about  to 
spring,  when  she  was  startled  by  the  sight  of  a  young 

man  running  towards  her  from  the  adjoining  paddock. 

251 


252  A  Study  in  temptations. 

Unobserved,  he  had  been  watching  her  for  some 
indefinite  space  of  time. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said,  lifting  his  hat,  "  but  I  fear 
you  do  not  see  that  the  bough  is  broken." 

"  No,"  she  said,  with  a  baffling  smile,  "  I  only  saw 
the  honeysuckle  ! " 

He  looked  at  her,  knit  his  brows,  bit  his  lips,  and 
then  laughed.  "So  you  only  saw  the  honeysuckle," 
he  said  j  "  your  point  of  view  is  magnificent !  "  He 
had  not  intended  to  speak  so  familiarly,  but  she 
reminded  him  so  strangely,  yet  with  so  little  reason, 
of  a  certain  Jane  Shannon  he  knew  of,  that  he  felt 
they  were  already  well  acquainted.  The  lady,  how- 
ever, unaware  of  her  resemblance  to  Jane  Shannon, 
gave  him  a  severe  look. 

"  I  never  thought  I  could  meet  any  one,"  she  said  ; 
"  I  did  not  know  that  there  was  any  one  in  Whetstone 
to  meet.  Besides,  this  is  not  the  high-road."  There 
was  a  note  of  haughtiness  in  her  tone,  and  her  large 
black  eyes  wandered,  apparently  by  chance,  to  a  large 
notice  which  faced  them  both — "  Trespassers  will  be 
Prosecuted? 

"I  am  a  stranger  here,"  said  the  youth,  flushing ; 
"  they  told  me  at  the  station  that  I  could  get  to  The 
Cloisters  by  crossing  these  fields.  I  saw  you  were  in 
danger,  so  I  spoke." 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  turned  ever  so  slightly  to 
go  on.  When  a  man  is  at  most  pains  to  conceal  his 
admiration  for  a  woman,  he  can  be  most  sure  that  she 
appreciates  his  struggle  to  her  finger-tips.  The  lady 
instinctively  pushed  back  her  hat,  and  gave  him  a 
longer,  perhaps  a  kinder,  glance  ;  he  remained. 

She  had  a  face  of  such  spiritual  liveliness  that  its 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  253 

merely  natural  charms  of  feature  and  colouring,  only 
seized  on  second  thoughts.  They  were  the  thin 
veil  over  a  sparkling  radiance,  which,  whether  it  were 
due  to  virtue,  or  wit,  or  coquetry,  was  too  dazzling 
for  Speculation — aged  twenty-one  and  a  son  of  Adam. 

a  Did  I  understand  you  to  say,"  she  said,  "  that  you 
were  on  your  way  to  The  Cloisters  ?  " 

"Yes,"  he  replied. 

"Then  you  must  be  De  Boys  Mauden."  (He 
bowed.)  "I  am  Sophia  Jenyns." 

"What!"  he  exclaimed,  "the  new  Lady  Macbeth?" 

"  The  newest,"  she  said,  drily.  "  You  must  know," 
she  continued,  wondering  at  Mauden's  extreme  as- 
tonishment, yet  pleased,  for  she  could  translate  all 
things  into  flattery — "you  must  know  that  I  came 
out  to  gather  honeysuckle  this  afternoon,  because 
I  wanted  to  see  whether  I  would  be  happier  if  I  were 
more  like  the  primitive  woman.  Every  one  is  talking 
about  nature,  so  I  thought  I  would  try  it.  I  have 
been  so  bored :  I  longed  to  be  at  home  reading  Hardy, 
or  St.  Augustine,  or  Hegel,  or  somebody? 

"  Do  you  read  Hegel  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  read  everything,"  she  replied,  "  don't  you  ? " 

"  No,"  he  said,  and  looked  gratefully  at  heaven. 

This  young  lady  who  was  so  far  from  philosophy 
that  she  tried  nature,  and  so  far  from  nature  that  she 
longed  for  philosophy,  chuckled  and  picked  up  her 
flower-basket. 

"You  Oxford  men,"  she  said,  "are  more  proud 
of  what  you  have  not  read  than  of  what  you  have  read. 
Come,  we  can  walk  to  The  Cloisters  together.  I 
hope  you  like  Lady  Hyde-Bassett  as  well  as  I  do." 

"I  should  like   her   better   if   I  thought   she   had 


254  -A  Study  in  Temptations. 

a  heart :  no  woman  with  a  heart  could  have  married 
Sir  Benjamin." 

"  Did  you  know  him  ?  "  said  Sophia. 

"  No,"  said  De  Boys  ;  "  but  every  one  says  he  was 
the  most  disagreeable  man  in  the  world  ;  so  forbidding 
and  curt  and  unapproachable." 

"  I  thought  so  once,"  said  Sophia,  "  till  one  day, 
when  I  was  a  child,  I  heard  him  talking  to  Lady 
Hyde-Bassett.  I  suppose  they  thought  I  was  too 
little  to  understand  them.  They  were  walking  in 
the  garden  and  he  asked  her  whether  she  would  rather 
be  a  pussy  cat  or  a  catty  puss,  and  she  pinched  his 
arm,  and  said  he  was  a  good  little  thing,  and  it  was 
a  pity  that  some  of  the  old  fossils  he  knew  could  not 
hear  him.  And  he  said,  very  solemnly,  c  God  forbid  ! ' 
and  she  kissed  his  hand  and  said  he  was  an  angel, 
but  she  wished  he  would  buy  a  new  hat,  although 
he  could  only  look  lovely  if  he  wore  pyjamas  and 
a  billy-cock  !  And  he  said,  c  For  God's  sake,  don't 
talk  so  loud  ! '  and  she  said,  c  Let  us  both  say  Damn 
with  all  our  might,  and  then  I  will  be  quiet.'  And 
they  said  Damn,  and  she  was  quiet,  and  then  they 
began  to  talk  about  Aristotle.  That,"  she  wound 
up,  "is  a  real  celebrity  really  At  Home.  So  you 
see  all  scholars  do  not  talk  like  Casaubon  in  c  Middle- 
march  ' ;  they  have  their  flippant  moments,  and  get 
horribly  tired  of  being  great ! " 

No  written  account  of  Miss  Sophia  Jenyns's  artless 
prattle  could  convey  her  melodious  voice,  grace  of 
gesture,  dramatic  force,  and  facial  expression.  De 
Boys  watched  her,  entranced  j  it  was  his  first  direct 
encounter  with  spontaneous  genius.  And  then  her 
fatal,  too  delicious  resemblance  to  Jane  !  he  could 


A  Study  in  'Temptations.  255 

adore  her  for  that  alone.  She  led  the  way  and  he 
followed :  a  Will  o'  the  Wisp  would  have  been  a  safer 
guide. 

Lady  Hyde-Bassett  was  an  American  by  birth, 
and  had  received  her  education  in  France.  After 
much  travelling  and  many  flirtations  she  had  married, 
at  the  age  of  two-and-twenty,  the  distinguished  invalid 
and  philologist,  Sir  Benjamin  Bassett. 

The  Hyde  was  an  inspiration  attached  to  a  small 
property  which  he  had  inherited  towards  the  close 
of  his  last  illness.  The  marriage  had  been  eminently 
happy,  but  before  the  Society  of  Antiquaries  had 
ceased  to  wonder  at  the  devotion  of  so  young  and 
modish  a  woman  to  the  apparently  grim,  the  certainly 
middle-aged,  and,  by  inference,  dull  hieroglyphic,  he 
died.  His  widow's  grief  was  of  the  desperate  order, 
but,  possessing  ample  means,  she  was  able  to  wreak 
it  by  building  a  marble  tomb  over  his  bones,  and 
founding  a  Hyde-Bassett  Scholarship  for  Greek  Verse. 
To  perpetuate  the  deceased  gentleman's  tolerant  and 
unprejudiced  temper  she  also  endowed,  with  equal 
generosity,  a  Roman  Catholic  School,  a  Wesleyan 
Methodist  Chapel,  and  a  Mission  for  the  Suppression 
of  Secret  Societies.  When  pressed  to  give  her  reason 
for  subscribing  to  the  latter,  she  said  that  Sir  Benjamin, 
to  his  sorrow,  had  belonged  to  one.  "  But,"  she 
added,  "the  rest  is  silence."  With  accomplishments 
which  only  wanted  an  occasion  to  reorganize  Europe — 
or  destroy  it — she  preferred  to  live  in  retirement  and 
make  matches,  comparable  only  to  Diocletian,  who 
found  (if  we  may  believe  him)  greater  happiness  in 
planting  cabbages  than  in  ruling  the  Empire  of  Rome. 


256  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

Her  country  house,  known  as  "  The  Cloisters,  near  St. 
Albans,"  was,  as  it  were,  a  home  of  rest  for  the  most 
eminent  in  science,  politics,  art,  and  literature  of  her 
day,  for,  from  her  intimate  knowledge  of  one  genius, 
she  never  committed  the  error  of  making  them  seem 
common,  by  entertaining  more  than  one — of  his 
particular  sphere — at  a  time.  The  distinguished  person, 
therefore,  who  accepted  her  hospitality,  never  laboured 
under  the  unspeakable  apprehension  of  encountering 
either  his  nearest  match,  or  worse,  his  horrid  better. 

Now  while  Miss  Sophia  Jenyns,  of  the  Parnassus^ 
was  gathering  honeysuckle,  her  ladyship  was  reading 
"The  Logic  of  Hegel."  The  room  in  which  she 
sat  was  large,  and  breathed  a  sweet  odour  of  peace 
and  good  housewifery.  Its  furniture,  hangings,  and 
decoration,  though  rich,  were  of  a  modest  and  even 
severe  character,  forasmuch  as  the  cushions,  coverings, 
footstools,  screens,  lamp-shades,  photographs,  and  gew- 
gaws appurtenant  to  a  modern  boudoir  were  comfort- 
able and  pleasing  by  their  absence. 

" Man  is  evil  by  nature"  she  read,  " and  it  is  an 
error  to  imagine  that  he  could  ever  be  otherwise.  To 
such  extent  as  man  is  and  acts  like  a  creature  of  nature 
to  that  extent  his  whole  position  and  behaviour  is  wrong. 
Nature  is  for  man  only  the  starting-point  which  he  must 
transform  to  something  better.  The  theological  doctrine 
of  Original  Sin  is  a  profound  truth" 

She  sighed,  and  looked  up  from  her  book  to  gaze 
into  a  small  silver-framed  mirror  which  stood  on  the 
table  by  her  side.  Her  complexion  was  pale,  her  eyes 
brown,  and  her  hair  prematurely  grey.  Some  of  her 
lady  friends  said  they  believed  she  thought  she  looked 
like  Marie  Antoinette.  Her  years  were  thirty-five, 


A  Study  In  'Temptations. 

but  a  life  of  assiduous  self-discipline  and  self-culture 
(glorified  selfishness,  in  fact)  had  given  her  the  calmness 
and  dignity  associated  with  the  idea — if  not  the  reality 
— of  old  age.  A  woman  so  finished  in  manner,  dress, 
and  bearing  could  only  be  called  artificial  in  comparison 
with  the  ordinary  type,  in  the  sense  that  one  might  so 
describe  a  sonnet  as  differing  -from  a  folk-song. 

Meanwhile,  the  leaves  of  Hegel  were  fluttering. 
Margaret,  with  a  sigh,  wrenched  her  eyes  from  the 
mirror  and  fastened  them  once  more  on  "  Original 
Sin."  But  again  she  read  no  further,  for  a  lady 
entered  the  room. 

Miss  Bellarmine  was  not  a  maiden  lady  of  that 
pathetic  type  who  pour  out  tea  and  who  have  once 
loved.  She  was  tall  and  of  commanding  appearance  : 
her  figure  was  considered  purely  Greek.  (Perhaps  this 
was  because  she  had  the  good  taste  to  drape  it  with 
Parisian  millinery  of  modern  date.)  She  had  really 
beautiful  features  if  one  examined  them  separately,  but 
as  a  whole  they  appeared  out  of  drawing,  as  though 
they  had  been  picked  off  various  antique  divinities, 
and  stuck  on  her  face  at  random.  Thus,  her  nose 
began  too  soon,  and  her  mouth  ended  too  late ;  whilst 
her  eyes,  charming  in  colour  and  shape,  were  so  placed 
that  they  offered  one  a  constant  temptation  to  shift  them 
either  higher  or  lower.  Her  expression  was  neutral, 
for  her  character,  like  that  of  many  Englishwomen, 
slumbered  behind  her  countenance  like  a  dog  in  its 
kennel,  to  come  out  growling  or  amiable  as  circum- 
stances might  demand.  She  was  highly  accomplished, 
and  spoke  five  languages  with  one  well-bred  accent. 
Theology  was  her  recreation,  but  Villon  the  serious 
study  of  her  life.  Her  notes  on  this  poet  promised 


258  A  Study  in  'Temptations. 

to  be  the  most  exhaustive  possible,  and  "  Bellarmine 
on  Villon,"  it  was  said,  would  be  read  like  Coke  on 
Lyttleton,  as  much  for  the  commentary  as  the  text. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  find  you  alone,"  she  said.  "  Sophia 
Jenyns  has  gone  out  for  what  she  calls  a  prowl,  and 
Wrath  is  playing  Bach  in  the  music-room.  What  a 
gifted  man  !  What  is  the  relationship  between  them, 
dear  ?  I  have  heard  every  impossible  explanation." 

Eliza  Bellarmine  was  a  discreet,  cold-blooded  person 
who  could  meet  Nature  face  to  face  without  blushing, 
and  wink  at  the  frailties  of  Culture.  Lady  Hyde- 
Bassett,  on  the  other  hand,  would  only  see  evil  where 
she  wished  to  see  it :  when  she  met  unpleasant  truths 
she  rode  off  on  what  she  called  her  instincts,  and  they 
carried  her  like  Barbary  mares.  She  did  not  reply  to 
her  friend's  question  immediately. 

"  There  is  no  truth  in  the  story,"  she  said,  at  last. 

"  I  have  heard,"  said  Miss  Bellarmine,  "  that  there 
is  more  than  truth — there  are  diamonds  !  " 

"  I  thought,  Eliza,  you  were  above  such  littlenesses 
Sophia  Jenyns    is    the    most    pure-minded   woman    I 
know.     She  is  not   like  other  geniuses — she  is   dif- 
ferent." 

"  They  are  all  different — with  a  sameness.  I  have 
known  thirty,  and  they  were  all  pure-minded,  and 
had,  at  least,  three  husbands  and  an  episode  !  " 

"  We  must  not  judge  them,"  murmured  her  lady- 
ship j  "they  are  so  fascinating,  and  their  husbands  are 
always  so  brutal." 

"  The  artistic  temperament,"  said  Miss  Bellarminr, 
in  measured  tones — "  the  artistic  temperament  is  only 
faithful  for  the  purposes  of  local  colour — to  experience 
fidelity,  in  feet.  Then  the  next  step  is  to  gain  some 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  259 

insight  into  infidelity.  Unless  a  genius  is  extremely 
religious  she  is  foredoomed  to  impropriety  !  " 

"  Eliza,"  said  Lady  Hyde-Bassett,  "  you  have  neither 
humour  nor  imagination." 

"  None,"  said  that  lady,  with  conscious  pride. 

"  And  yet  you  are  editing  a  poet  ! " 

The  commentator  smiled,  which  the  poet,  could  he 
have  been  present,  would  not  have  done. 

"  But,"  said  Miss  Bellarmine,  who  never  left  a 
subject  unsifted,  "  you  have  not  explained  the  relation- 
ship." 

"  Wrath  adopted  Sophia  when  she  was  only  four 
days  old :  her  father  committed  suicide,  and  her 
mother  died  when  she  was  born.  I  blush  for  human 
nature  when  I  hear  a  man  so  maligned  for  a  kind 
action.  He  must  have  been  very  poor  at  the  time, 
for  he  had  only  just  sold  his  *  Antigone.'" 

"  I  know  all  that,"  said  Eliza ;  "  and  it  was  very 
noble  on  his  part,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  But  Sophia 
is  no  longer  four  days  old  ! " 

"If  they  cared  for  each  other,  is  there  any  earthly 
reason  why  they  should  not  marry  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  He  may  have  a  lunatic  wife  locked 
away  somewhere,  or,  in  his  extreme  youth,  he  may 
have  married  some  low  person  who  is  too  respectable 
to  divorce :  nothing  is  more  likely.  I  am  very  sorry 
for  Sophia  Jenyns,  and  more  sorry  for  him  j  but  I 
think  they  should  either  be  frank,  or  separate.  If 
they  think  they  are  wrong,  they  should  bid  each  other 
good-bye,  but  if  they  feel  they  are  right,  they  should 
have  the  courage  of  their  opinion.  I  could  respect 
them  then,  although  I  might  disagree  with  their  con- 
science. As  it  is — well,  they  evidently  know  they  are 


260  A  Study  in  'Temptations. 

doing  wrong,  since  they  dare  not  be  candid.     And 

they  must  be  wretched  !     He  is  far  too  honest  a  man 

not  to  be  miserable  in  a  false  position." 

"I   have  listened,  dear,"  said  Lady  Hyde-Bassett, 

"  because  your  sentiments  are  so  excellent.     But — first 

swear  you  will  never  tell !  " 

a  I  cannot  give  my  word  blindly." 

"  Then  I  will  not  tell  you." 

"  Have  I  ever  betrayed  your  confidence  ?  w 

"  Never,"  said  her  ladyship  ;  "  but — this  is  a  most 

profound  secret." 

"  In  that  case  perhaps  you  ought  not  to  repeat  it." 
u  You  are   so  aggravating,   Eliza  !      Shall    I  tell 

you  ? " 

"  That  is  a  matter  for  your  own  judgment." 

a  Never  breathe  it  to  a  soul !     Wrath  and  Sophia 

have  been  married  for  two  years." 

"  You  astonish  me,"  said  Eliza,  at  last,  but  without 
moving  a  muscle — "you  astonish  me  greatly.  .  .  . 
But  I  am  inexpressibly  relieved  to  hear  it.  ...  Any 
children  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Lady  Hyde-Bassett ;  "  so  it  could  not 
have  been  on  that  account.  ...  But  now,"  she  went 
on,  a  we  must  talk  of  something  else :  it  would  be 
very  awkward  if  either  of  them  came  suddenly  in. 
Have  I  told  you  about  De  Boys  Mauden  ?  He  has 
just  won  my  scholarship :  a  most  brilliant  young 
fellow  j  they  say  he  will  be  another  Person.  But  he 
has  been  overworking,  and  the  doctor  has  insisted  on 
his  taking  a  rest.  So  I  have  made  him  come  here. 
I  sent  the  brougham  for  him,  but  he  told  Biffin  he 
preferred  to  walk.  He  cannot  know  the  way,  and, 


A  Study  in  temptations.  261 

manlike,  would  probably  rather  perish  than  ask  any 
one  to  direct  him  !  " 

"  I  shall  be  most  interested  to  make  his  acquaintance 
— most  interested.  I  know  his  name  quite  well." 
She  did  not  as  a  matter  of  fact,  but  as  a  matter  of 
principle  a  commentator  and  an  occasional  contributor 
to  the  learned  reviews,  could  not  be  ignorant  of  the 
existence  of  a  future  Porson. 

"  He  is  very  handsome,"  said  her  ladyship  ;  adding, 
after  a  pause,  "  when  he  has  got  his  degree  I  shall  let 
him  revise  and  augment  all  Benjamin's  unpublished 
manuscripts.  I  began  them  myself,  but  my  Greek  is 
too  Homeric ! " 

"  Mr.  Mauden,"  announced  the  footman. 


V. 


IN  WHICH   A   LADY   HAS   A   TANTRUM,   AND   A 
GENTLEMAN   PLAYS    A    FUGUE. 

SOPHIA  JENYNS  had  parted  company  with  De  Boys  in 
the  hall,  and  was  now  hurrying  towards  the  music- 
room,  where  Wrath  was  playing  a  fugue  in  masterly 
style.  But  Sophia  was  in  no  mood  for  harmony. 
She  burst  open  the  door,  flounced  in,  and  put  her 
arms  round  her  husband's  neck. 

"  Tom,"  she  said,  "  I  have  been  reconsidering  what 
you  said  this  morning  about  making  our  marriage 
public.  I  know  myself  so  well  that  I  am  sure  I  could 
never  love  you  again  if  you  did.  There  is  not  a 
correct  bone  in  my  body :  it  would  kill  me  to  be 
called  Mrs.  Wrath — simply  kill  me.  I  adore  you  and 
worship  you  and  idolise  you,  although  you  are  my 
husband.  That  I  cannot  help;  but  to  let  other 
people  know  it— oh,  intolerable  !  I  will  not  be  a 
British  matron.  I  will  not  be  called  virtuous.  It  is 
no  one's  business  whether  I  am  married  or  not — a  lot 
of  fussy,  prying,  evil-minded  old  women — let  them 
talk  !  I  think  of  them  when  I  say,  *  I  heard  the  owl 
scream  and  the  crickets  cry ' — no  wonder  I  make  the 
whole  house  creep  !  Buh  !  And,  Tom — you  fasci- 
nating, lovely,  wonderful  creature,  I  have  just  been 
flirting  with  all  my  might,  and  by  to-morrow  I  shall 
be  madly  in  love !  Compared  with  you  he  is  a 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  263 

monster,  but  in  your  absence  he  does  very  well.  He 
is  already  quoting  Spenser,  and  his  voice  is  agreeable. 
Tell  me  you  worship  me,  and  I  will  tell  you  the 
rest !  " 

"  Why  don't  you  flirt  with  me,  dearest,  and  leave 
these  young  fellows  to  their  work  ?  " 

"  My  soul,"  said  his  wife,  "  my  heart  of  hearts,  you 
are  the  dullest  person  to  flirt  with  I  ever  met.  I 
never  flirted  with  you  in  my  life :  I  half-tried  it  once 
by  pretending  to  love  you.  But  I  found  it  too  easy  to 
pretend — hence  our  hideous,  inartistic  marriage  certifi- 
cate !  Never  refer  to  it  if  you  have  any  regard  for  my 
self-respect." 

"Sophia,  seriously " 

"  I  will  not  be  glared  at,  nor  frowned  at !  How 
handsome  you  are !  If  you  were  not  my  husband 
I  would  elope  with  you  to-morrow.  What  a  mercy 
I  met  you  before  I  saw  any  one  else.  If  I  had  met 

you  too  late — oh,  if  I  had  met  you  too  late "  She 

paused.  "  I  am  afraid  I  would  not  have  called  it  too 
late!" 

"  This  is  all  very  pretty,"  said  Wrath,  "  and  you 
are,  no  doubt,  very  adorable.  But  you  must  behave 
yourself ;  other  people  do  not  understand  you  as  I 
do." 

He  was  about  eight-and-forty,  and  looked  older. 
His  features,  though  fine,  were  irregular ;  his  poetic 
brow,  his  large  and  eminently  practical  nose,  the  unrest 
in  his  dark  eyes,  and  the  stillness  about  his  mouth 
betokened  him  the  possessor  of  an  unusually  complex 
disposition.  He  was  an  extremely  handsome  man,  yet 
such  was  his  simplicity,  that  not  all  his  wife's  flatteries 
could  convince  him  that  he  was  other  than  plain.  The 


264  A  Study  in  T'emptations. 

absence  of  personal  vanity  in  an  eminently  self-con- 
scious age,  when  every  hero  sings  his  own  epic,  had 
the  curious  effect  of  making  many  people  accept  him 
at  his  own  estimate :  they  argued,  from  their  own 
experience,  that  a  person  who  was  not  his  own  greatest 
admirer  could  not  possess  admirable  characteristics. 

"  But  seriously,"  he  said,  secretly  enjoying  his  wife's 
brilliant,  ever-varying  countenance — from  the  artistic 
point  of  view  she  was  a  constant  joy — "  quite  seriously. 
You  must  be  guided  by  my  knowledge  of  the  world. 
I  must  announce  the  marriage,  and  so  put  an  end  to 
this  revolting  gossip  !  " 

"  Revolting  gossip  does  not  matter :  only  facts  are 
fatal — simply  disastrous.  Do  not  expose  me  to  the 
humiliation  of  being  publicly  branded  as  an  honest 
woman  ! " 

His  mouth  twitched :  there  was  always  too  much 
sadness  in  Sophia's  jesting  to  make  it  downright 
laughable. 

"While  people  can  talk  about  us,"  she  went  on, 
"  we  give  them  an  opportunity  to  show  their  charitable 
view  of  human  nature,  and  so  they  encourage  us  j  but 
if  they  once  knew  the  truth,  no  one  would  care  to 
see  me  act,  and  your  pictures  would  be  called  dull,  I 
know  !  " 

"  Where,"  he  said,  "  do  you  learn  this  cynicism  ? 
It  afflicts  me  beyond  words :  it  is  utterly  false,  utterly 
corrupt,  utterly  disgusting.  You  certainly  do  not 
hear  it  from  Lady  Hyde-Bassett." 

She  glanced  at  him  swiftly,  and  as  swiftly  glanced 
away.  He  had  coloured  a  little — no  doubt  from 
annoyance. 

"Lady  Hyde-Bassett  has  not  lived  my   lifej"  she 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  265 

said,  catching  her  breath  j  "  she  was  not  a  born 
pauper  !  Her  father  was  not  starved  out  of  his  wits, 
and  her  mother  did  not  dance  herself  to  death  for  a 
pound  a  week." 

«  Sophia  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  you  have  always  been  very  kind 
to  me.  I  am  not  ungrateful." 

"  Do  you  talk  of  gratitude — to  me  ?  " 

"  I  will  talk  of  anything  I  like  to  anybody  !  .  .  . 
Have  you  asked  Margaret  to  sit  for  the  Madonna  ?  " 

"  I  have  asked  her  to  give  me  a  sitting  or  two — 
yes.  But  it  is  merely  for  the  shape  of  her  face  :  it 
would  not  be  a  portrait.  Pray  be  careful  how  you 
refer  to  the  matter,  because  I  was  studiously  careful 
to  explain  that  I  could  not  paint  the  Madonna  from 
any  woman  in  the  world.  It  merely  struck  me 

that  Marg that  Lady  Hyde-Bassett's  face  was 

peculiarly " 

"  Fiddlesticks  ! " 

"If  you  are  going  to  be  peevish,  I  think  we  had 
better  not  talk." 

"You  are  very  unkind  to  me.  And  I  have  a 
frightful  headache :  I  can  hardly  see.  I  am  sure 
this  place  is  unhealthy.  ...  I  was  only  thinking, 
why  trouble  Margaret  to  sit,  if  you  are  not  going  to 
make  the  picture  like  her  ?  What  would  be  her 
object  in  sitting  ? — she  might  as  well  be  a  lay-figure 
at  once.  I  am  afraid  she  will  feel  insulted." 

"  She  seemed  to  perfectly  realize  what  I  meant,  and 
was  very  amiable  about  it." 

"  Naturally  !  She  could  hardly  let  you  see  that 
she  was  annoyed — in  her  own  house,  and  when  you 
are  a  guest  !  .  .  .  Why  can't  I  sit  for  you  ?  w 


266  A  Study  in  temptations. 

"  Your  type,  you  know,  dearest,  is  —  is  not 
conventionally  religious.  You  are  most  beautiful, 
but " 

"  I  would  do  very  well,  I  suppose,  for  the  Woman 
taken  in  Adultery  !  " 

"  I  have  never  seen  you  like  this  before." 

"  Perhaps  not.  Thank  God,  I  don't  sit  with  my 
mouth  screwed  in  one  perpetual  simper,  looking 
religious,  and  wondering  whether  my  new  gowns 
will  fit !  I  want  you  to  understand  that  I  have  got 
a  soul !  and  a  mind  !  and  individuality  !  " 

He  sighed  and  returned  to  his  playing  j  but  there 
was  no  spirit  in  his  performance. 

"You  are  not  to  tell  Margaret  of  our  marriage," 
said  Sophia,  suddenly  j  "when  I  get  ready,  I  will 
tell  her  myself." 

He  flushed  again,  and  this  time  more  decidedly. 
Unfortunately,  he  had  informed  her  ladyship  of  his 
happy  condition  that  very  afternoon — in  a  burst  ot 
friendly  confidence — after  she  had  promised  to  sit 
for  the  Madonna.  Could  the  circumstances  be  more 
awkward  ? 

"  Do  you  think  she  suspects  ?  "  said  Sophia.  But 
women  have  a  fatal  genius  for  answering  their  own 
questions.  Before  her  husband  could  reply  she  went 
on,  "  I  do  not  see  how  she  can  j  I  have  always  been 
very  careful." 

"Sophia,"  he  began,  intending  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  the  matter,  "  the  fact  is " 

She  stamped  her  foot — a  beautiful  foot,  too,  another 
artistic  joy.  "  I  loathe  facts  j  I  will  have  my  own 
way  about  it.  You  promised  me  that  I  could  keep 
it  a  secret  as  long  as  I  wished." 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  267 

"  I  know  that,"  he  replied,  "  but  you  said  this 
morning " 

"  I  am  always  being  told  what  I  said  this  morning  ! 
Never  mind  what  I  said  six  hours  ago :  it  is  the 
afternoon  now.  I  suppose  I  may  change  my  mind." 

"  But,"  he  said,  "  I  am  heartily  sick  of  all  this 
absurd  mystery.  I — I  am  rather  proud.  I  cannot 
explain  it,  but  it  affects  your  honour.  These  reports 
you  find  so  amusing  are  gross  insults.  I  was  mad  to 
make  such  a  fool's  promise." 

"  No,"  said  Sophia,  "  you  were  not  mad,  you  were 
in  love  with  me,  that's  all.  You  have  promised 
anything  !  "  It  was  most  indiscreet  to  remind  him 
of  this  mournful  truth.  Wrath  received  it  with 
sublime  (if  highly  coloured)  indignation. 

"  I  was  never  in  love  with  you,"  he  replied,  angrily. 
"  I  detest  the  phrase.  Wife  to  me  is  a  sacred  name. 
.  .  .  But  few  women  understand  a  man's  best  feelings, 
and  least  of  all  on  the  subject  of  love.  They  do  not 
realize  that  even  the  vilest  of  us  would  rather  think 
that  the  woman  he  loves  is  a  bit  of  divinity.  .  .  . 
But  it  is  very  seldom  that  she  will  let  him  think  so 
— very  seldom.  .  .  .  Are  we  quarrelling  ? "  he  said, 
abruptly ;  "  once  I  thought  we  could  never  quarrel. 
This  is  terrible  !  " 

"  This,"  she  said,  "  is  marriage  !  " 

"You  speak  as  though  you  regretted " 

"  You  recognize  regret  as  though  you  were  long 
acquainted  with  it ! "  A  woman  always  handles 
sarcasm  with  the  point  towards  her  own  breast. 
Sophia  turned  pale  at  her  own  words. 

"  You  do  regret,"  she  said. 

*'  I  regret  anything  that  makes  you  unhappy." 


268  A  Study  in  temptations. 

"  This  is  equivocation :  you  never  did  speak  out 
and  you  never  will.  A  man  so  guarded  in  his  words 
must  have  very  treacherous  thoughts.  Why  do  you 
look  at  me  like  that  ? "  she  said,  passionately.  "  I 
repeat,  you  are  very  difficult  to  understand.  I  have 
been  with  you  ever  since  I  was  born,  and  I  have 
always  done  all  the  talking  !  "  He  did  not  attempt 
to  deny  this,  but  still  kept  his  eyes  on  her  with  the 
patient,  touching,  and  wistful  expression  of  the  collie 
dog  in  "  The  Shepherd's  Chief  Me  rner." 

"  One  has  to  take  you  on  trust  or  not  at  all,"  con- 
tinued his  wife  j  "  the  most  exasperating  man  God  ever 
made  !  It  is  a  most  unfortunate  thing  that  we  ever 
met :  you  are  naturally  secretive,  and  I  am  naturally 
suspicious.  Why  did  you  not  let  them  take  mts  to 
the  workhouse  ?  And  why  did  you  make  love  to 
me  ?  You  know  you  did :  I  cannot  remember  one 
single  word  you  ever  said,  but  you  have  got  an  artful 
way  of  implying  everything  under  the  sun  without 
uttering  a  syllable  !  You  never  even  asked  me  to 
marry  you  :  all  I  know  is,  that  I  am  married  and 
I  wish  I  wasn't.**  And  she  wept.  Sophia  never 
exhausted  herself  by  restraining  her  emotions  ;  tears 
now  sprang  to  her  eyes  and  rolled  down  her  cheeks 
so  softly  and  sweetly,  that  to  see  her  one  would  have 
thought  that  weeping  were  as  easy  as  breathing.  It 
was  a  pretty  study  in  highly  cultivated  sorrow. 

"  My  dearest,"  said  Wrath,  "  you  are  not  well. 
But  this  is  all  my  fault :  I  have  been  a  beast.  How 
can  you  like  such  a  great,  clumsy,  ill-natured  brute  ? 
It  is  a  very  flimsy  excuse,  but  I  think  I  worked  too 
long  this  morning.  Margaret  was  reading  aloud  and 
I  did  not  like  to — r-" 


A  Study  in  temptations.  269 

"  What  was  she  reading  ?  w  said  Sophia. 

"  Some  new  novel :  I  forget  the  title,  but,"  he 
added,  £t  the  cover  was  green  !  " 

"  What  was  it  about  ?  " 

He  grabbed  at  the  opportunity  to  amuse  her,  and 
detailed  the  plot  with  elaborate  care — drawing  however 
rather  from  his  imagination  than  his  memory.  The 
result  was  an  adaptation  of  "Red  Cotton  Nightcap 
Country,"  "  Wilhelm  Meister,"  and  «  Gil  Bias."  He 
might  have  made  some  fame  as  a  novelist. 

When  he  had  finished,  Sophia  coughed.  "  How 
well  you  remember  it,"  she  said ;  "  you  must  have 
listened  very  attentively  !  " 

Then,  remarking  that  she  felt  better,  she  left  him. 
He  heard  her  singing  "  I  know  that  my  Redeemer 
liveth "  as  she  went  up  the  stairs,  and  rejoiced  that 
he  had  cured  her  headache,  and  could  resume  his 
fugue. 
*  So  little  do  men  know  their  wives 


VI. 

IN   WHICH    A    LADY    LOOKS    GRATEFUL. 

WRATH  had  been  playing  in  ineffable  contentment 
for  some  thirty  minutes,  when  the  door  was  opened 
softly  and  Lady  Hyde-Bassett  walked  in.  Her  gait 
was  peculiar — not  goddess-like,  defiant,  and  untram- 
melled in  the  manner  of  Sophia,  but  agreeably 
suggestive  of  moneyed  leisure,  a  certain  feminine 
timidity,  and  clinging  draperies.  She  was  already 
dressed  for  dinner,  and  was  looking  her  best  in  violet 
silk  and  amethysts.  Here  it  may  be  a  fitting  oppor- 
tunity to  mention  that  she  was  ever  attired  in 
beautiful  garments :  "  How  can  I  make  myself  a 
fright,"  she  told  Eliza  Bellarmine,  "  when  I  know 
that  my  dearest  is  watching  me  from  heaven  ?  It 
would  make  him  so  unhappy  to  see  me  growing 
dowdy  ! "  Which,  Eliza  thought,  would  have  been 
impious  had  it  not  been  American. 

Margaret  and  Wrath  had  known  each  other  for 
many  years.  She  had  often  given  him  motherly 
advice  in  his  attempt  to  bring  up  Sophia  (who  was 
her  junior  by  some  ten  birthdays),  and  their  friend- 
ship, which  had  been  somewhat  solemn  during  Sir 
Benjamin's  lifetime,  was  now  stepping  the  enchanting 
measures  of  an  intellectual  jig.  It  may  be  that  if 
Lady  Hyde-Bassett  had  not  vowed  perpetual  widow- 
hood, and  if  Miss  Jenyns  had  not  suddenly  grown 

970 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  271 

from  a  tiresome  schoolgirl  into  a  maddening  but 
all-compelling  woman but  why  dwell  on  might- 
have-beens  ?  Wrath,  however,  had  very  nearly  loved 
her  once,  and  as  he  was  not  a  man  who  cast  his 
affection  on  what  was  unlovely,  where  he  bestowed 
it,  there  it  remained.  He  was  quite  conscious  that 
he  had  a  kind  regard  for  Margaret,  but  the  difference 
between  that  kind  regard  and  his  overmastering, 
limitless  devotion  to  his  wife  was  so  immeasurable 
that  it  never  even  occurred  to  him  to  compare  them. 
One  woman  occupied  his  life,  and  the  other  an 
occasional  thought,  and  even  that  thought  would  be, 
as  it  were,  a  ripple  on  a  whole  ocean  of  Sophia. 

"  It  is  wicked  to  interrupt  you,"  said  her  ladyship, 
as  she  entered,  "  but  I  must  steal  a  moment  just  to 
tell  you  about  my  new  genius — young  Mauden." 

"  A  new  genius  ?  "  he  said,  lifting  his  eyebrows. 

"  I  am  not  overrating  him,  I  assure  you.  Once  you 
had  more  confidence  in  my  judgment !  " 

"  Naturally,"  said  Wrath.  "  That  was  when  /  was 
your  new  genius." 

"  Ah,  why  refer  to  my  past  follies  ?  "  said  Margaret, 
which  was  certainly  an  adroit  way  of  suggesting  them. 
She  was  a  coquette  before  she  was  a  widow. 

"  I  own,"  he  said,  "  it  is  not  pleasant  to  be  reminded 
of  one's  mistakes." 

"  I  never  mistook  you"  she  murmured :  "  I  was 
only  mistaken  in  myself." 

"I  can  remember,"  he  began — "I  can  remem- 
ber  " 

"  Do  not  remind  me,"  said  Margaret.  She  was 
wondering  how  she  could  ever  have  allowed  herself 
to  even  vaguely  contemplate  the  impossible  possibility 


4- 

272  A  Study  in  temptations. 

of  marrying  again.  It  was  her  only  consolation  to 
think,  that  for  at  least  six  months  after  Sir  Benjamin's 
death  she  had  not  been  in  her  perfect  mind  :  chaos 
was  come  and  the  reign  of  irresponsibility.  "  It 
wanted  a  Shakespeare,"  she  thought,  "to  make  the 
Lady  Ann  accept  Richard  III.  over  her  husband's 
coffin  :  it  must  have  been  then  or  never ! " 

"  Do  not  remind  me,"  slie  said  again. 

"  Is  it  only  men  who  should  have  the  burden  of 
remembering  ?  "  said  Wrath,  surprised  at  his  unusual 
power  of  repartee,  and  deciding  that  it  was  inspired  by 
the  twilight. 

"I  remember  too  well  too  many  errors,"  she 
sighed. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  he,  "  women  only  confess  the  sins 
they  have  left  ««done  !  " 

"  It  was  a  man  who  played  for  a  talent  of  for- 
getting !  " 

u  He  prayed  in  vain,"  said  Wrath,  now  thoroughly 
exhausted  and  wishing  to  Goodness  that  Sophia  would 
come  in  and  "  do  the  talking."  Half-unconsciously 
he  turned  an  ivory  button  in  the  wall,  and  lo  !  the 
room  was  illuminated  by  the  discerning  beams  of 
the  electric  light. 

"  What  a  useful  invention  ! "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Most  useful !  "  said  her  ladyship,  no  less  heartily. 

"  By  the  bye,"  he  said,  "  Sophia  has  retracted  her 
promise  that  I  might  announce  our  marriage.  She  is 
sublime  !  As  she  is  suffering  from  neuralgia,"  he 
went  on,  "  I  did  not  tell  her " 

"I  will  be  as  silent  as  the  grave,"  said  Margaret, 
divining  his  whole  difficulty  at  a  guess. 

He  could  only  gaze  his  gratitude,  admiration,  and 


* 

A  Study  in   Temptations.  273 

wonder.  "  I  never  tease  her  when  she  is  studying  a 
new  part,"  he  explained  ;  "  she  is  much  too  sensitive 
to  be  able  to  do  good  work  under  the  stress  of  annoy- 
ance. And  to  a  woman  of  her  nervous  temperament 
a  small  fret  is  more  distressing  than  a  serious  calamity  : 
her  patience  is  too  mighty  for  trivialities.  Paper 
boats  cannot  sail  in  the  north  wind  !  "  He  smiled, 
and  was  evidently  fully  alive  to  what  the  world  called 
the  cussedness  of  the  divine  Sophia  :  only  he  did  not 
call  it  cussedness  ;  it  was  to  him  the  last  magnificent 
touch  to  her  colossal  spirit. 

"  But  when  do  you  try  her  patience  ?  "  said  Lady 
Hyde-Bassett.  "  If  every  woman  of  genius  had  such 
a  husband  !  I  do  not  wonder  that  she  worships  the 
ground  you  walk  on  :  that  is  a  secret  which  she  can- 
not keep.  Oh,  when  a  man  is  unselfish,  no  woman — 
not  even  the  best — can  compare  with  him.  Splendid  ! 
splendid  !  I  have  only  known  one  man  like  you,  and 
that  was  Sir  Benjamin."  The  sudden  remembrance 
of  her  own  desolation  was  so  afflicting  that  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears. 

"Do  not  mention  us  in  the  same  breath,"  said 
Wrath  ;  "  you  know  what  I  think  about  him." 

It  had  been  his  appreciation  for  Sir  Benjamin  which 
had  assailed  her  heart  so  perilously  in  what  we  call  the 
If  period.  "  It  is  such  a  comfort  to  me,"  she  said, 
"  to  know  that  at  least  one  of  my  husband's  friends 
had  some  conception  of  the  man  apart  from  his  attain- 
ments. I  must  have  loved  him,  if  he  had  only  been  a 
sausage-seller  ! " 

It  was,  no  doubt,  very  touching,  and  perhaps  an 
occasion  when  her  ladyship  could  throw  an  affectionate 
glance  at  her  guest  with  perfect  propriety 

19 


274  <A  Study  in  Temptation*. 

But  Sophia,  who  happened  to  come  into  the  room 
at  that  moment,  and  who  had  not  heard  the  preceding 
remark,  did  not  understand  it. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  lightly,  "  I  am  looking  for  young 
Mauden.  Such  an  intelligent  boy  !  I  promised  to 
show  him  the  conservatory." 

Without  looking  at  Wrath — or  at  least,  without 
appearing  to  look,  for  we  may  be  quite  sure  that  she 
had  nicely  observed  every  line  of  his  countenance — she 
wheeled  round  and  went  out. 

"  How  lovely  she  looks  in  that  yellow  crepe  !  "  said 
Margaret,  not  enviously,  yet  with  a  sigh.  "  It  is  nice 
to  be  young  !  " 

Wrath  felt  that  it  would  ill  become  him  to  be  un- 
reservedly enthusiastic  on  the  subject,  seeing  his  close 
relation  to  the  lady.  But  he  walked  to  the  door 
and  watched  the  incomparable  creature  sail  down  the 
corridor. 

As  he  went  upstairs  to  dress  for  dinner,  he  won- 
dered what  he  had  done  to  deserve  the  love  of  such  a 
woman,  and,  lest  ,any  cynical  reader  should  assume 
that  so  excellent  and  kind-hearted  a  man  was  thanking 
Heaven  for  a  blessing  which  he  did  not  possess,  let  us 
hasten  to  add  that  Sophia  was  no  less  often  astonished, 
on  her  part,  that  she  was  blessed  with  such  a  husband. 
For,  to  do  her  justice,  she  knew  his  strength  and  her 
own  weakness  :  if  he  indulged  her  beyond  reason,  the 
fact  was  due  to  his  magnanimity  and  not  her  superior 
will.  He  might  have  crushed  her  but  did  not.  Hence, 
his  charm. 

But  on  that  particular  afternoon  Sophia's  heart  was 
usurped  by  feeling  very  unlike  gratitude  :  vague  anger, 
clear  discontent,  and  motherless  desperation — the  three 


A  Study  in  'Temptations.  275 

witches  of  a  woman's  soul — were  doing  their  best  to 
work  mischief.  To  be  suspicious  of  Margaret  was 
unfriendly  ;  to  distrust  Wrath  was  something  not  very 
far  removed  from  base — so  kind  a  husband,  so  devoted 
a  lover,  so  upright  a  man — yet  she  could  not  forego 
the  luxury  of  a  grievance.  Besides,  in  spite  of  all 
argument,  common  sense,  and  justice,  she  really  was 
jealous. 

Why  should  her  husband  paint  Margaret  Hyde- 
Bassett  as  the  Madonna,  and  why  should  Margaret 
Hyde-Bassett  roll  her  eyes  at  Wrath  ? 


VIL 

SHOWING   HOW   SOME  VERY   NECESSARY  INFORMATION 
MAY   SEEM    LIKE    A    DIGRESSION. 

IT  is  an  obvious  truism  that  love  in  all  human  rela- 
tions is,  in  the  very  nature  of  things,  selfish  j  those 
who  love  unselfishly  only  do  so  by  living  in  a  state  of 
constant  warfare  with  their  meaner  instincts.  The 
natural  desire  is  to  absorb  every  thought  and  moment 
of  the  loved  being  ;  to  begrudge  every  interest,  and 
dislike  all  things  and  anything  which  would  seem  to 
distract  the  You  from  incessant  dependence  on  the 
Me.  This  is  the  undisciplined,  raw  desire :  many 
conquer  it — Wrath,  for  instance  j  more,  like  Sophia, 
do  not. 

Yet  she  was  not  an  exacting  woman — the  self- 
repression  was  by  no  means  all  on  his  side  :  she 
suffered  her  husband's  interest  in  his  pictures  with 
silent  heroism  j  she  oftened  remained  away  from  his 
studio  lest  she  should  interrupt  his  work  j  she  con- 
cealed many  of  her  professional  worries  for  fear  of 
causing  him  needless  anxiety — for  a  creature  so  way- 
ward and  naturally  heedless  of  others,  her  thoughtful- 
ness  where  he  was  concerned  was  even  pathetic.  But 
it  is  only  one  more  paradox  from  that  nest  of  paradoxes 
— the  human  heart — that  only  love  is  strong  enough 
to  subdue  love,  and  affection  had  worked  its  great 
miracle  in  Sophia's  wilful  nature.  When  Wrath  was 

276 


A  Study  in  'Temptations.  277 

in  question  she  was  capable  of  any  sacrifice,  could 
have  made  herself  as  though  she  were  not,  would  have 
renounced  all  things  and  followed  him  gladly — did  he 
wish  it  —  into  obscurity  and  the  suburbs.  It  was 
because  she  honestly  believed  that  his  social  position 
would  suffer  if  their  marriage  were  made  known,  that  she 
pretended  to  hold  such  eccentric  and  unfeminine  views 
on  the  subject  of  a  fair  name.  How  the  poor  creature 
winced  and  ached  under  the  looks  and  whisperings  she 
daily  noted  and  overheard,  it  would  be  impossible  to 
say.  A  woman  who  is  really  living  an  immoral  life 
always  feels,  like  a  condemned  criminal,  that  the 
verdict  is,  if  hard  to  bear,  certainly  just.  But  to 
Sophia,  conscious  of  her  innocence  and  only  too  proud 
to  be  the  wife  of  the  man  she  loved  and  honoured 
above  all  others,  the  mud  pellets  aimed  at  her  reputa- 
tion, stuck  like  knives  in  her  heart.  That  she  was 
suffering  for  an  absurd  reason  has  nothing  to  do  with 
it :  death  in  grotesque  circumstances  is  none  the  less 
death,  and  the  martyr  to  a  fool's  cause  is  still  a  martyr. 
As  we  have  said  before,  it  is  the  heart  that  makes  the 
occasion. 

It  had  transpired,  after  Wrath  was  elected  a  Royal 
Academician,  that  his  family  was  most  distinguished  : 
his  uncle  the  Cabinet  Minister,  his  cousins  the 
Wrath-Havilands  of  Wrath,  his  mother's  aunt,  the 
Marchioness  of  Welby,  and  his  connections,  the 
Granville-Coxes  of  Somerset,  to  say  nothing  of  his 
step-brother,  General  Gorm-Gorm,  and  his  step 
sister-in-law,  Lady  Gertrude  Gorm-Gorm,  &c.,  &c. 
To  Wrath  himself  the  whole  thing  was  too  ludicrous 
to  be  contemptible,  but  Sophia — poor  Sophia — was 
undeniably  impressed.  The  early  teaching  of  a 


278  A  Study  in  temptations. 

certain  excellent  governess,  whose  papa  was  a  retired 
colonel,  had  done  its  work,  and  the  gods  of  Sophia's 
childhood,  (beginning  with  a  Duke  and  ending  with  a 
Chancery  Barrister),  remained  her  gods,  although  she 
had  seen  their  altars  destroyed,  and  themselves  pro- 
fanely called  humanity.  She  would  not  have  it  said, 
that  Wrath  had  married  beneath  him  ;  she  could  not 
see  the  Duchesses  who  now  flattered  him,  presently 
shooting  cold  glances  because  he  had  married  an 
actress.  Possibly  Sophia  did  not  reason  without 
syllogisms,  although  the  word  itself  would  have 
caused  her  considerable  alarm. 

Her  fight  for  success,  (and  she  did  not  wake  up  one 
morning  to  find  herself  famous — she  had  served  her 
dreary  apprenticeship  with  the  rest),  had  been  waged 
more  in  the  hope  of  making  herself,  at  least  in  some 
small  degree,  his  intellectual  equal,  than  because  she 
had  great  ideas  about  Art,  or  a  longing  for  public 
applause.  She  loved  her  profession,  of  course,  and 
would  have  been  an  accomplished  actress  had  she 
never  known  Wrath — for  talent  does  not  rest  on  the 
accident  of  forming  a  certain  friendship  or  meeting 
such  and  such  a  person,  but  he  was  her  audience,  the 
historic  one  in  a  vast  multitude,  whom  every  artist 
singles  out  as  the  critic  of  all  others  to  please.  If 
Wrath  approved  of  her  performance  all  was  well  j  but 
if  he  found  fault,  not  all  the  praises  of  the  world 
could  have  given  her  the  encouragement  she  needed. 
Perhaps  this  was  not  as  it  should  be  from  an  aesthetic 
point  of  view,  but  Sophia's  art  was  not  the  result  of 
cultivation  but  instinctive :  she  was,  in  fact,  most 
artistic  when  she  was  least  scholarly.  The  poet  Gray 
once  wrote  of  a  tragedy  that  Aristotle's  best  rules 


A  Study  in   Temptations.  279 

were  observed  in  it,  in  a  manner  which  showed  the 
author  had  never  heard  of  Aristotle.  Miss  Jenyns's 
acting  had  the  same  unpremeditated  excellence.  The 
polite  world,  however,  was  doing  its  best  to  make  her 
think  that  her  readings  were  the  result  of  laborious 
thought,  that  she  spent  hours  over  the  nice  lifting  of 
an  eyelid  and  devoted  months  to  the  right  inflexion  of 
a  syllable,  but  Wrath,  with  his  usual  bluntness,  having 
declared  that  "all  such  twaddle  made  him  sick,"  she 
dared  not  assume  prodigious  airs  in  his  presence.  But 
she  found  it  humiliating  to  reflect  that  she  had  so 
very  little  to  do  with  her  own  ability — that  she  was, 
after  all,  a  sort  of  puppet  controlled  by  an  invisible 
power,  who  made  her  do  wonderful  things  when  she 
thought  she  was  simply  acting  on  a  chance  idea. 

Now  young  Mauden,  fresh  from  Oxford,  with 
much  learning  and  no  wisdom,  with  Plato  in  his 
brain,  the  Odyssey  next  his  heart,  and  Aristophanes 
in  his  portmanteau — Mauden,  who  could  find  the 
whole  of  Aristotle  in  a  pause,  was  exactly  the  sort 
of  clever  youth  to  persuade  a  fresh  woman  into  a 
dull  pedant.  Already,  after  one  conversation  with  De 
Boys  on  the  Irony  of  Shakespeare  contrasted  with  the 
Irony  of  Sophocles,  a  brief  discussion  on  the  respective 
characters  of  Lear  and  CEdipus,  with  hints  at  Dumas, 
so  local  but  so  witty,  and  Augier,  whose  humour 
deserted  him  in  a  big  situation,  Sophia  was  beginning 
to  feel,  that  Wrath  as  a  dramatic  critic  lacked  culture : 
he  talked  too  much  about  work  and  common  sense, 
and  not  enough  about  the  True,  the  Universal,  and 
Objectivity.  Yet  he,  too,  was  an  Oxford  man,  and 
well  read  :  so  differently  do  men  apply  their  know- 
ledge 


280  A  Study  in   temptations. 

And  here  let  us  judge  kindly  of  Sophia ;  she  had 
been  much  spoiled,  she  was  young,  beautiful,  and  had 
great  talents.  For  even  less  cause  many  poor  mortals 
have  been  led  into  vainglory,  and  have  suffered  much 
vexation  of  spirit.  She  had  not  yet  that  great  gift  of 
self-knowledge  which,  though  a  painful  blessing,  is 
still  our  greatest  and  the  one  to  be  prayed  for  beyond 
all  others  ;  for  the  man  who  knows  himself  in  all  his 
great  imperfections  and  small  virtues,  suffers  more 
under  praise  than  he  ever  could  under  censure — 
which,  at  worst,  can  only  remind  him  of  what  his 
too-willing  conscience  has  forgotten. 

We  have  said  that  when  Sophia  left  the  music-room 
she  was,  in  spite  of  all  reason  and  duty,  jealous  j  it 
followed  therefore  that  her  vanity  was  all  the  more 
sensitive.  The  long  glance  of  reverential  but  intense 
admiration  which  fell  from  the  fine  eyes  of  Mr.  De 
Boys  Mauden,  when  she  met  him  in  the  conservatory, 
warmed  her  chilled  soul.  She  smiled  divinely,  blushed 
celestially,  and  murmured,  for  no  earthly  reason,  "  I 
am  late  ! " 

De  Boys,  reconsidering  the  meeting  afterwards, 
wondered  how  he  found  strength  to  resist  the  im- 
pulse to  cry  out  "  Jane  ! "  and  kiss  her.  Her  like- 
ness to  Jane — Jane,  whom  he  passionately  worshipped, 
and  whom,  in  all  devotion,  he  hoped  to  make  his 
adoring  wife — was  too  bewildering. 

It  is  just  possible  tliat  Odysseus  would  have  gone 
to  greater  lengths  than  the  faithful  Penelope,  on  the 
reasonable  argument  of  a  strong  resemblance. 


VIII. 

SHOWING    HOW   TRAGEDY    IS    NOT    ALWAYS     IN     FIVE 
ACTS. 

Miss  ELIZA  BELLARMINE,  all  this  time,  was  sitting 
in  front  of  the  looking-glass  in  her  bedroom,  wonder- 
ing whether  her  eyes  showed  the  effects  of  weeping. 
She  wept  so  seldom  that  when  she  did,  her  face  for 
some  time  afterwards  would  be  irresistibly  suggestive 
of  the  beach  after  a  storm. 

"  It  is  hard,"  she  said,  staring  at  herself,  "  that  one 
woman  should  have  so  much,  and  another,  nothing. 
Who  could  blame  Wrath  ?  " 

From  which  the  intelligent  reader  will  at  once 
gather,  that  the  learned  and  austere  Miss  Bellarmine 
had  bestowed  her  heart  on  one  who  had  never  sought 
it :  on  one  who  she  had  just  learnt  was  the  husband — 
and  the  devoted  husband — of  another  woman.  So 
strange  is  the  feminine  mind,  that  while  she  had 
quailed  under  the  gossip  which  associated  Wrath  and 
Sophia  in  a  more  than  charitable  alliance,  her  position 
did  not  seem  quite  desperate.  He  would  arise  one  day, 
assert  his  higher  self,  and  cast  about  him  for  chaste 
society,  coupled  with  moderate  charms.  But  now — 
O  heavy  fate  ! — this  could  not  be  :  he  had  married 
the  daughter  of  Heth. 

Eliza  had  not  the  temperament  of  those  who 
consume  with  idleness  and  call  it  hopeless  passion  j 

a8i 


282  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

her  love  was  wholesome  and  honest,  and  worked  for 
good,  not  evil.  She  was  only  too  well  aware  that 
she  had  no  smallest  claim  on  Wrath's  consideration  : 
he  had  given  her  no  encouragement — indeed,  it 
would  have  been  hard  to  find  a  man  who  had  less 
of  the  drawing-room  gallant  in  his  manner  with  any 
woman.  So  marked  was  his  deficiency  in  the  elegant 
art  of  disrespectful  attentions  that  many  fashionable 
ladies  declared  they  could  not  endure  the  rude  monster, 
and  were  he  not  supposed  to  be  wonderfully  clever 
(although  they  could  see  nothing  in  his  pictures),  they 
would  never  even  notice  the  wretch.  Eliza,  there- 
fore, like  many  of  us  in  unhappy  circumstances,  had 
only  her  own  foolishness  to  blame,  and  that  she  knew 
this  was  not  the  least  bitter  of  her  several  pangs.  But 
already  she  had  put  Wrath  out  of  her  heart  for  all 
time. 

"  Never,  never,  never,  never  !  " 

This  was  her  solemn  incantation,  and  lo  !  even  as 
she  spoke  the  only  romance  of  her  dull  life  shivered, 
sobbed,  and  vanished.  She  could  have  cut  off"  her 
hand  with  the  same  unhesitating  precision  had  it 
seemed  necessary.  But  such  triumphs,  whether  over 
the  will  or  the  body,  are  not  cheaply  won  :  decisive 
moments  are  not  realized  by  time,  and  what  is  done 
in  sixty  ticks  of  the  clock  the  soul  must  remember  or 
regret  for  eternity. 

Eliza,  having  mastered  a  great  situation  in  her  life, 
was  only  conscious  that  she  felt  much  older  and  very 
tired.  She  bathed  her  eyes,  ordered  herself  some  tea, 
and  sat  down  to  read  Arckenholz  on  Christina  of 
Sweden — four  portentous  volumes  which  she  had 
chosen  from  Sir  Benjamin's  library  as  light,  yet 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  283 

useful  reading.  And  although  it  might  have  been 
more  dramatic  if  she  had  indulged  instead  on  a  long 
soliloquy  on  the  hollowness  of  life,  the  injustice  of 
God,  and  so  on,  there  are  those  who  might  think  it 
was  more  heroic  to  blow  her  despised  nose  and  study 
a  tedious  historian. 

Half  an  hour  later  when, Eliza  entered  the  drawing- 
room  she  discovered  Wrath  and  Lady  Hyde-Bassett 
playing  chess,  and  Sophia  (who  hated  games  of  every 
description),  engaged  in  a  most  animated  conversation 
with  De  Boys  Mauden.  No  one  seemed  to  notice 
her  entrance  except  Margaret,  who  gave  her  a  swift 
smile  and  indicated  with  her  eyes  a  new  book  on  the 
side-table,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  That  will  interest  you 
more  than  either  of  these  men."  Eliza  sighed,  but 
drifted  towards  the  volume.  Literature  was  still  her 
friend. 

"  How  I  should  like  to  paint  her  as  St.  Martha," 
said  Wrath,  in  a  low  voice,  to  Lady  Hyde-Bassett ; 
"  she  has  just  that  expression  of  kind,  yet  terrible 
energy  St.  Martha  must  have  had  !  " 

"  How  a  love  affair  would  improve  her  ! "  said 
Margaret ;  "  every  woman  should  have  at  least  one 
love  affair." 

"  But  she  is  a  nice  creature,"  said  Wrath.  "I  am 
very  fond  of  her.  She  is  a  good  but  inaccessible 
angel." 

"  I  am  going  to  marry  her  to  Claverhouse  Digges," 
said  her  ladyship,  confidently,  "  I  shall  arrange  it  all 
next  autumn  !  " 

Artistic  chess  is  a  game  beyond  the  petty  restric- 
tions of  science. 


IX. 

WHICH    INTRODUCES    A    DOWAGER    AND    A    PEER. 

THE  Dowager  Countess  of  Warbeck  awoke  one 
morning  at  eight  o'clock  and  discovered  that  she  could 
not  fall  asleep  again.  She  rang  for  her  maid,  com- 
plained that  she  had  passed  an  extremely  bad  night 
(for  she  usually  slept  till  nine),  and  arose  from  her  bed. 

"Will  your  ladyship  have  breakfast  earlier  than 
usual  ?  "  said  the  maid. 

"  No,"  said  her  ladyship,  who  did  not  feel  hungry  ; 
"but  tell  Dawson  to  sound  the  gong  for  prayers  at 
half-past  eight."  She  therefore  put  her  bad  night  to 
excellent  account  by  reading  her  assembled  household 
three  lessons  instead  of  one.  Would  that  all  good 
Christians  killed  their  time  with  so  much  profit — to 
others ! 

When  the  domestics  had  solemnly  filed  out  of  the 
big  dining-room,  the  Dowager  turned  to  her  grandson 
— the  one  prop  of  her  declining  years — with  an  air  of 
almost  tragic  appeal. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said,  "  I  must  go  to  Brentmore  and 
see  this  Battle — or  Cattle — person  ?  " 

a  It  would  look  more  friendly,  if  you  did,"  said  her 
grandson, "  but  I  have  no  wish  to  urge  anything  of  the 
kind  upon  you,  if  you  feel  unequal  to  it." 

"I  never  allow  myself  to  feel  unequal  to  a  duty, 
Warbeck.  But  the  position  is  heart-breaking." 

884 


A  Study  in   'Temptations.  285 

The  position  which  her  ladyship  found  so  distressing 
was  briefly  this  :  she  had  been  the  second  wife  of  the 
1 4th  Earl,  by  whom  she  had  one  son,  the  father  of 
the  present  Warbeck.  The  late  Earl,  however,  had 
had  four  other  sons  by  his  previous  marriage,  the 
youngest  of  whom  (Edmund),  he  had  disowned  for 
marrying  a  yeoman's  daughter.  Not  to  detain  the 
reader  with  tedious  particulars  it  will  be  sufficient  to 
say  that  Destiny  had  played  many  sad  and  unlooked- 
for  tricks  with  the  three  elder  sons  and  their  children, 
and  now,  with  the  not  uncommon  irony  of  human 
affairs,  Jane  Shannon,  the  daughter  of  the  cast-off 
Edmund,  was  heiress  to  the  great  estate.  The 
Dowager's  grandson  had  the  peerage,  but  the  cream 
of  the  property — the  famous  "  Drawne  acres  "  of  that 
Anne  whom  we  mentioned  in  the  first  chapter — had 
fallen  to  Jane.  No  wonder  the  Countess  could  not 
sleep  for  bitterness  of  spirit,  and  no  wonder  Warbeck 
was  leaving  England  that  very  morning  for  the  Con- 
tinent. 

"After  all  these  thousands  of  years,  to  see  a  War- 
beck  reduced  to  poverty  !  "  groaned  the  Dowager — "  I 
repeat,  poverty  !  Heversham  Place  is  the  sort  of  resi- 
dence for  a  superior  cottage  hospital,  and  Graylands  is 
only  fit  to  let  to  some  American,  or  to  a  Colonial. 
You  cannot  possibly  live  there.  No  Earl  of  Warbeck 
has  had  his  foot  inside  it  since  1550.  Drawne  estates, 
indeed  !  Who  would  have  heard  of  them  if  Anne 
Drawne  had  not  married  a  Shannon  ?  Who  fought 
for  them,  bled  for  them,  died  for  them  ?  No  Drawnes, 
but  the  Earls  of  Warbeck.  And  now  this  Cattle 
person  is  to  have  them  all — and  Grosvenor  Square, 
too  !  "  This  was  her  magnificent  manner  of  referring 


286  A  Study  in   Temptations. 

to  the  town  mansion,  as  though  only  one  house  in 
London  could  justly  claim  that  address.  "  Grosvenor 
Square,  too,"  she  repeated ;  "  and  you  with  no  roof 
over  your  head.  Fifteen  thousand  a  year  ?  What  is 
that?  Far  more  than  you  need?  It  is  not  a  question 
of  needy  it  is  a  question  of  what  you  require — what  is 
decent.  And  as  for  calling  this  Cattle  person,  Lady 

Jane "     Words  failed  her. 

Her  grandson  smiled  patiently ;  he  knew  this 
harangue  by  heart.  But  he  never  permitted  himself 
— even  in  solitude — to  fall  below  the  Stoic  ideal.  He 
wore  a  hair-shirt  under  his  fine  linen,  and  took  his 
rule  of  life  from  Sir  Thomas  More,  but,  unlike  that 
saint,  he  suffered  religious  doubts.  It  was  said  that 
if  he  had  written  something  touching  against  Chris- 
tianity, or  something  pretty  about  Moll  Flanders,  he 
would  have  been  a  Superior  Person.  But  Superior 
Persons  do  not  wear  hair-shirts.  There  are  good  men 
who  yet  bear  on  their  countenance  the  scars  of  many 
battles  lost  and  won  j  their  knowledge  of  good  is  ever 
shadowed  by  their  knowledge  of  evil  j  they  are  all 
things  to  all  men  that  they  may  by  all  means  save 
some.  But  Warbeck  was  not  of  these.  Sir  Launcelot 
may  have  died  an  holy  man,  but  Sir  Galahad  lived 
holily  also.  It  was  the  latter  knight  who  had  most 
fired  the  young  peer's  imagination.  His  was  no  self- 
conscious  virtue,  however  j  at  times  he  even  affected 
airs  of  worldly  cynicism  which  reminded  his  grand- 
mother of  the  Miltonic  Archangel  who  tried  to  explain 
heavenly  mysteries  in  earthly  language — and  blushed  red 
in  the  attempt.  He  was,  too,  a  powerful  fellow — no 
weakling,  who  made  a  virtue  of  debility,  but  a  man. 
"  What  a  fish  for  the  Church  ! "  said  a  bishop,  who 
had  his  eye  upon  him. 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  287 

Warbeck  had  all  that  longing  of  a  strong  nature  to 
help  some  one — to  feel  that  he  was  of  some  use  in  the 
world  ;  and  he  would  have  undergone  any  suffering  or 
hardship  if  he  had  once  persuaded  himself  that  his  pain 
would  promote  another's  peace.  But  to  suffer  to  no 
purpose  ;  to  study  for  hours  with  no  other  desire  than 
the  accumulation  of  barren  knowledge  ;  to  pour  weak 
advice  into  unwilling  ears ;  to  offer  dumb  praise  to  a 
deaf  God ;  to  spend  his  time,  as  a  witty  philosopher  has 
said,  milking  a  he-goat  into  a  sieve — these  were  things 
he  could  not  do.  He  knew  that  he  was  considered 
promising  by  those  friends  whose  judgment  he  could 
not  choose  but  value,  and  his  University  career  had 
more  than  fulfilled  their  expectations.  Yet  the  self- 
distrust  was  there — a  haunting  thought  lest,  in  the 
end,  he  would  not  only  disappoint  those  who  were 
dear  to  him  on  earth,  but  that  possible  God  who  had 
a  way  of  asserting  His  authority  in  the  form  of  a  still, 
small  conscience.  Youth  is  naturally  impatient,  and 
is  not  content  to  remain  blind  for  even  three  days  like 
St.  Paul,  nor  can  young  enthusiasm  believe  readily 
that  those  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait.  The 
impulse  is  to  rush  into  the  fray,  to  kill  or  be  killed, 
but  both  or  either  without  loss  of  time  or  hindrance. 
Vanity,  too,  and  ambition,  no  less  than  a  zeal  of 
serving  the  Almighty  and  humanity,  may  have  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  fierceness  of  this  desire,  so  easy  is 
it  to  flatter  the  soul  that  the  glorification  of  self  is  all 
to  the  glory  of  God.  These  and  similar  thoughts, 
while  they  restrained  Warbeck  from  any  active  par- 
ticipation in  public  affairs,  were  silently  working  for 
good,  strengthening  his  judgment,  and  giving  him 
some  insight  into  his  own  heart  and  human  perplexi- 


288  A  Study  in  temptations. 

ties.  He  would  know  his  work  in  due  season ;  but 
the  time  was  not  yet  come.  Already  he  had  heard 
the  whispers  of  a  calling,  though  the  voice  was  dim 
and  far  off,  not  yet  to  be  perfectly  known.  So  he 
tried  to  be  patient. 

When  the  Countess  of  Warbeck's  carriage  drove  up 
to  "Up-at-Battle's"  that  same  afternoon,  (Brentmore 
is  about  three  hours'  railway  journey  from  London), 
Miss  Caroline  was  what  she  called  turning  out  the 
sitting-room.  Both  she  and  her  niece  had  dusters 
pinned  round  their  heads,  and  wore  big  aprons. 
Although  the  preceding  night  had  brought  a  lawyer's 
letter  telling  Jane  of  her  extraordinary  change  of  for- 
tune, she  had  not  realized  its  full  meaning — nor,  indeed, 
had  Miss  Caroline.  They  were  both  simple-minded 
beings,  and  had  been  brought  up  to  think  that  their 
daily  tasks  must  be  performed,  even  though  the  heavens 
were  falling.  It  was  the  day  for  the  parlour,  and 
though  Jane  had  inherited  all  England,  the  room  had 
to  be  swept  and  garnished  by  some  one,  and  as  Jane 
was  on  the  spot,  she  was,  of  course,  the  some  one  to 
do  it. 

Jane  opened  the  door  herself,  and  found  the  footman 
standing — almost  gingerly,  as  though  he  were  treading 
on  very  doubtful  substance — on  the  front  step. 

"  Is  Miss  Battle  at  home  ?  "  said  he,  saying  Battle 
with  difficulty,  for  his  tongue  did  not  take  kindly  to 
trashy  syllables.  (The  Dowager  had  made  up  her 
mind  that  she  would  first  ask  to  see  the  aunt,  and 
thus  avoid  the  unspeakable  Lady  Jane  Shannon. 
"  Fiddle-de-dee  on  courtesy ! "  she  had  told  her 
grandson.) 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  289 

The  footman  assisted  his  aged  mistress  out  of  the 
carriage  with  respectful  sympathy. 

"  Have  I  the  pleasure  of  addressing ?  "  began 

Lady  Warbeck,  feeling  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
and  very  much  against  her  will,  that  it  is  not  the  apron 
which  makes  the  servant. 

"  I  am  Jane,"  said  the  girl ;  "  will  you  come  into 
the  kitchen,  for  the  sitting-room  is  full  of  dust  ?  " 

The  Countess,  in  spite  of  her  eccentricities,  was 
a  well-bred  woman — one  who  had  travelled  much, 
observed  much,  and  read  much.  She  was,  too,  so 
absolutely  sure  of  her  own  excellent  social  position 
that  she  suffered  none  of  those  fears  so  common  to 
mushroom  nobility,  lest  she  might  not  be  taken  for 
the  exalted  being  she  was.  She  could,  if  necessary, 
adapt  herself  to  any  scene  or  any  society ;  she  did  not 
look  less  a  countess  because  she  sat  in  a  kitchen.  Good 
breeding  does  not  require  a  background.  She  always 
held,  however,  that  nervousness  in  her  august  presence 
showed  very  proper  feeling,  so  she  looked  at  Jane  very 
hard  for  seeming  so  unembarrassed.  Jane  met  her  look 
modestly,  and  with  the  respect  which  instinct  taught 
her  was  due  to  one  who  was  so  many  years  her  senior, 
but  with  no  more  fear  than  if  her  great  relative  had 
been — as  her  ladyship  wrote  to  Warbeck — "a  tabby 
cat  on  a  wall." 

Miss  Caroline  appeared  from  the  scullery,  where  she 
had  been  washing  her  hands,  and  greeted  her  visitor 
with  much  old-fashioned  grace,  but,  it  must  be  owned, 
little  style.  That  is  to  say,  she  neither  tittered  nor 
stared,  nor  assumed  an  unnatural  voice,  but  spoke  and 
acted  exactly  as  she  always  did  when  there  was  no  one 
in  sight  and  hearing  save  Battle  and  Jane. 

20 


290  A  Study  in   'Temptations. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Lady  Warbeck,  when  she  had 
learnt  that  they  were  both  quite  well  and  did  not  find 
the  weather  trying — "  I  suppose  you  are  making  your 
preparations  to  come  up  to  town.  But  Grosvenor 
Square  is  a  little  sombre  just  at  present." 

"  It  must  be  dreadful,"  said  Jane,  with  much  sym- 
pathy, "so  soon  after  a  death." 

"Shocking!"  said  her  ladyship — "Shocking!  It 
has  been  a  matter  of  national  regret ;  the  Queen  sent 
me  three  telegrams." 

Their  thoughts  were  disjointed  and  confused;  these 
three  wondering  women — one  young,  two  simple,  and 
one  neither  young  nor  simple — had  all  kind  hearts, 
although  education,  experience,  and  rank  had  set  very 
different  seals  on  each. 

Miss  Caroline  looked  at  the  Countess,  and  saw  more 
than  an  elderly  lady  in  a  bonnet  and  mantle. 

"  Poor  thing  !  "  she  said,  and  her  honest  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

Lady  Warbeck  did  not  know  how  to  explain  that 
by  no  possible  effort  of  her  imagination  could  she 
think  of  herself  as  a  Thing.  So  she  pretended  not 
to  hear. 

"  I  cannot  yet  trust  myself  to  speak  of  these  painful 
events,"  she  went  on.  "I  hope  I  am  resigned.  'Man 
that  is  born  of  woirun '  It  is  not  for  us  to  ques- 
tion the  inscrutable  decrees  of  Providence."  Then 
she  turned  to  Jane.  "It  would  give  me  much  plea- 
sure if  you  would  spend  a  week  or  so  with  me,  and  I 
think,  in  the  peculiar  circumstances,  it  would  be  the 
most  proper  course  to  pursue." 

"  I  think  so  too,"  said  Miss  Caroline.  "  I  have 
been  worrying  ever  since  last  night — when  we  heard 


A  Study  in   Temptations.  291 

— because  I  knew  no  one  who  could  really  advise  her 
and  tell  her  just  what  to  do.  Girls  are  so  thoughtless." 

"So  much  depends  on  one's  bringing-up,"  murmured 
her  ladyship.  "  I  daresay  you  are  looking  forward 
with  immense  delight  to  your  future  life,  and  your 
first  season,  and  your  new  frocks,  and  so  on  !  "  (The 
Dowager  was  most  serious  when  she  seemed  flippant.) 

Jane  had  all  a  girl's  love  for  beautiful  clothes,  and 
already  she  had  certainly  dreamt  of  a  heavenly  gown, 
soft-hued,  with  straight  back  seams  and  a  train.  She 
had  also  designed  a  black  silk  dolman  for  her  Aunt 
Caroline.  She  therefore  blushed  a  little  at  Lady 
Warbeck's  question,  and  owned  that  she  had  thought 
of  ordering  a  new  dress. 

"  Can  you  return  with  me  to-morrow  ? "  said  Lady 
Warbeck,  venturing  a  smile  j  "  there  are  a  great  many 
tiresome  legal  matters  to  go  through,  but  our  man  of 
business — he  will  be  yours  as  well  now,"  she  added, 
with  a  sigh — the  sigh  was  absolutely  necessary — "is 
most  considerate.  Everything,  no  doubt,  will  adjust 
itself  in  the  most  satisfactory  manner." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  began  to  see  possibilities  as 
many  and  great  and  tall  as  the  Anakims.  Warbeck, 
happily,  was  still  unmarried.  .  .  .  She  had  decided 
that  Jane  only  needed  to  have  her  hair  done  properly, 
and  to  be  generally  overhauled  by  a  good  maid.  For 
the  rest,  she  was  even  pleasing ;  she  was  uncommon, 
and  uncommon  girls  were  in  demand ;  that  was  why 
those  Americans  married  so  well. 

"  You  must  keep  your  delightful  country  ideas,"  she 
said,  pleasantly,  remembering  Lord  Warbeck's  love 
of  the  unaffected.  "I  hope  London  will  not  make 
you  cynical.  Men  hate  cynical  girls." 


292  A  Study  in   Temptations. 

"  Why  should  London  change  her  ? "  said  Miss 
Caroline,  wondering  whether  "cynical"  was  a  new 
epidemic  :  something  of  an  asthmatic  nature. 

"  Well,  I  hardly  know  how  to  explain,"  said  the 
Countess.  "  It  is  one  of  those  things  one  takes  for 
granted." 

Miss  Caroline  looked  anxiously  at  Jane.  Every- 
thing in  the  nature  of  change  alarmed  her. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  that  London 
will  be  good  for  Jane  ?  " 

"  London  is  very  healthy,"  said  Lady  Warbeck. 
"My  doctor  tells  me  that  even  the  fogs  are  whole- 
some— if  your  lungs  can  stand  them." 

"  It  is  not  the  fogs  I  fear,"  said  Miss  Caroline, "  it's 
the  folk." 

«  The  folk  ?  "  said  Lady  Warbeck,  « the  folk  ?  I 
understand.  I  know  very  little  about  them.  They 
keep  in  the  East  End.  Once  or  twice  my  dear  step- 
son lent  them  Grosvenor  Square  for  a  meeting.  But 
we  were  all  out  of  town  at  the  time." 

"Aunt  Caroline  calls  everybody,  folk,"  explained 
Jane,  colouring  in  her  effort  not  to  laugh. 

"  Really  ?  "  said  the  Countess.  "  Of  course  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  everybody — that  is  a  newspaper 
vulgarism.  One  is  either  a  somebody  or  a  nobody 
— irrespective  of  rank  or  profession.  The  next  best 
thing  to  a  somebody,  is  a  nobody  in  a  good  set ! " 

She  smiled  as  she  spoke,  for  there  were  few  pleasures 
she  enjoyed  so  much  as  expounding  the  truths  that  be 
— as  she  understood  them.  Had  she  been  born  in  a 
humbler  sphere  she  would,  no  doubt,  have  been  the 
principal  of  a  ladies'  college.  Women  who  possess 
what  Mr.  Joe  Gargery  called  a  "  master  mind,"  like 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  293 

to  manage  men,  but  they  like  to  manage  other  women 
still  better :  it  is  a  greater  triumph  from  an  artistic 
point  of  view.  Lady  Warbeck  promised  herself  un- 
alloyed joy  in  directing  the  unsophisticated  being 
Heaven  had  dropped  in  her  way. 

She  had  to  endure  several  pangs,  however,  as  she 
drove  to  the  hotel,  (where  she  was  spending  the  night), 
for  she  could  not  persuade  herself  that  because  Jane 
was  unassuming  she  was  necessarily  meek.  And 
meekness  in  a  protege  is  an  essential,  if  one  is  to  be 
a  patroness  with  any  degree  of  comfort  or  satisfaction. 
The  Dowager  was  by  nature  a  kind  woman.  If  she 
was  approached  with  what  she  considered  proper 
respect,  she  was  often  found  even  heroic.  She  would 
put  herself  out  to  do  amiable  things :  she  arranged 
meetings  between  people  who  wanted  or  were  wanted 
to  make  each  other's  acquaintance ;  she  found  berths 
for  younger  sons ;  she  assisted  mothers  with  their 
daughters  ;  she  begged  unscrupulously  from  the  rich  j 
she  pushed  young  talent  (she  encouraged  all  the  arts)  ; 
she  recommended  governesses,  and  dressmakers,  and 
orphan  homes,  and  hospitals,  and  hotels,  and  deserving 
cases — indeed,  to  sum  up  her  virtues  in  a  sentence,  she 
never  missed  an  opportunity  of  doing  something  to 
her  credit.  And  now  she  had  taken  a  fancy  to  Jane — 
which  was  the  highest  possible  credit  to  both  of  them. 
For  her  ladyship  had  good  taste  and  was  not  easily 
satisfied. 

"The  child  is  neither  good  form  nor  bad,"  she 
wrote  to  Warbeck.  "She  is  no  form  at  all,  and 
would  be  called  original.  (I  do  not  mean  that  she 
swears  like  Lady  Buntynge.)  She  is  very  innocent, 
and  has,  I  assume,  no  accomplishments.  But  really, 


294  d  Study  in  Temptations. 

dear,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  is  an  advantage. 
Nowadays  every  one  wants  to  perform  and  no  one  will 
listen,  and  a  nice  quiet  girl  who  can  merely  appreciate 
would  be  much  sought  after.  She  must  take  up  some 
serious  interest,  and  I  shall  advise  Greek — it  is  better 
than  philanthropy,  because  it  does  not  let  one  in  for 
bazaars.  I  shall  also  urge  the  engagement  of  a 
governess-companion  —  that  sweet,  lady-like  person 
whom  the  dear  Baroness  was  telling  me  of  would  be 
just  the  creature.  In  appearance  your  cousin  (for  she 
is  your  cousin,  after  all)  is  most  pleasing,  her  features 
and  bearing  reminded  me  in  the  most  painful  manner 
of  your  grandfather."  (The  deceased  peer  in  question 
had  been  distinguished  for  his  moral  rather  than  his 
physical  charms.  His  wife,  however,  may  have  dis- 
cerned him  spiritually.}  "  Imagine  my  boundless  relief 
to  be  so  agreeably  disappointed.  She  is  much  hand- 
somer than  Tunborough's  scraggy  Lady  Marian.  By 
the  bye,  I  hear  that  Lady  Marian's  photographs  are 
for  sale  in  all  the  shop-windows,  and  that  they  sell 
better  than  those  of  that  Granada  person,  who  has 
such  fine  legs  and  jumps.  Lady  Dundry,  Marian's 
godmother,  is  so  upset  about  it  that  she  has  turned 
Roman  Catholic.  Poor  dear !  "  (Lady  Warbeck  divided 
the  human  race  into  dears,  poor  dears,  and  persons.}  "  I 
will  write  more  fully  in  a  day  or  two,  but  remember 
that  I  am  getting  old  and  cannot  be  with  you  much 
longer. 

a  Your  affectionate  grandmother, 

"A.  WARBECK." 

a  That  little  hint  about  my  age,"  she  thought,  "  will 
bring  him  home  at  the  end  of  the  month." 


A  Study  in  temptations.  295 

And  she  slept  more  soundly  that  night  than  she  had 
for  many  weeks. 

Jane,  on  the  morrow,  when  she  found  herself  actually 
seated  in  the  train  and  gliding  out  of  the  little  station 
at  Brentmore,  hardly  knew  whether  to  laugh  or  cry. 
She  had  not  shed  tears  over  her  parting  with  her 
grandfather  and  Aunt  Caroline,  for  she  was  coming 
back  to  see  them  again  so  shortly,  and  they  had  both 
seemed  in  such  good  spirits  at  her  wonderful  fortune. 
(Fortunately,  Jane  was  not  hard  to  deceive,  for  neither 
old  Battle  nor  his  daughter  were  adepts  at  concealing 
their  emotions.)  But  now  she  felt  lonely;  the 
Countess  had  warned  her  that  she  always  slept  when 
she  was  travelling,  and  never  attempted  to  talk,  so 
Jane  stared  out  of  the  window,  and  found  her  only 
comfort  in  thinking  that  now  she  was  rich  she  could 
send  De  Boys  anonymous  bank-notes  and  so  enjoy  the 
rare  distinction  of  helping  a  genius.  For  she  no  longer 
thought  of  him  as  her  lover :  a  very  dear  friend,  that 
was  all,  a  sort  of  relation,  almost  a  brother — but  more 
interesting.  If  he  ever  married  and  had  children  she 
would  be  their  godmother  and  try  to  like  his  wife. 
She  might  also  build  him  a  church,  and  in  the  mean- 
time she  would  do  all  she  could  for  poor  Mr.  O'Nelli- 
gan,  the  curate,  who  had  been  his  tutor. 

When  she  thought  of  herself  she  was  at  once  both 
eager  and  fearful  to  learn  what  the  Future  would  be : 
as  if  there  is  not  always  still  another  Future — when 
one  Future  has  become  a  Past — to  fear  and  yet  rush 
into !  Her  personal  experience  of  the  world  was  slight 
to  the  point  of  nothingness,  but  from  a  long  course  of 
incessant  and  unsystematic  reading  she  had  gathered 


296  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

such  a  variety  of  (more  or  less  uncertain)  knowledge, 
from  metaphysic  to  the  Greek  drama,  that  she  was, 
as  she  told  her  aunt,  prepared  for  anything.  In 
imagination,  she  had  walked  in  courts  and  market- 
places, in  ancestral  halls  and  suburban  villas ;  poets, 
scholars,  and  wits  were  her  constant  companions,  not 
to  mention  kings  and  archbishops  j  for  one  accus- 
tomed to  such  company,  the  Dowager  Countess  of 
Warbeck,  and  even  a  row  of  flunkies,  had  no  terror. 
When  she  saw  the  big  drawing-rooms  at  Queen's 
Gate  (the  Dowager's  town  residence)  she  thought  that 
the  kitchen  at  Up-at-Battle's  was  more  cheerful. 
Even  the  piano,  which  had  ebony  legs  and  was  ele- 
gantly draped  in  an  Indian  shawl,  seemed  to  cry  out 
for  a  sympathetic  touch.  Jane  in  her  grey  alpaca  felt 
very  sorry  for  it.  Lady  Warbeck  had  been  fully 
prepared  to  see  her  trip  over  the  rugs,  slide  off  the 
brocaded  chairs,  and  dazzled  by  the  unaccustomed 
splendour  of  her  surroundings.  It  was  disappointing 
in  some  respects  that  she  did  not,  yet,  on  the  whole, 
satisfactory. 

u  To-morrow,**  said  her  ladyship,  "  I  suppose  you 
would  like  to  see  Grosvenor  Square  ?  " 

"Any  day  you  think  best,  grandmamma !"  said  Jane. 

The  Dowager  had  told  her  that  she  preferred  this 
mode  of  address.  But,  as  her  maid  told  the  house- 
keeper, "  Her  lad'ship  was  not  born  yesterday — she 
knew  what  she  was  about,  bless  you  ! " 

"  Trust  her,"  said  the  housekeeper,  "  she's  got  the 
brains  of  the  whole  fam'ly  j  she'll  marry  Lady  Jane  to 
his  lordship — mark  my  words  !  " 

Thus  profanely  do  hirelings  discern  the  hidden 
motives  of  the  mighty. 


IN   WHICH    A   YOUNG    GENTLEMAN    DEFINES    DUTY 
AND   OTHER    UNCERTAINTIES. 

GIVEN  two  young  people,  idleness,  and  a  week,  and 
the  sum  total  is  Folly  ;  add  the  artistic  temperament 
and  a  pretty  gift  for  philosophic  discussion,  and  you 
get  Sympathy  ;  multiply  by  a  sound  knowledge  of  the 
Classic  amorists,  and  the  result  is  Romance. 

De  Boys  had  been  at  The  Cloisters  one  week  when 
he  received  tidings  of  Jane's  altered  position.  He  felt 
at  once  that  whatever  hopes  he  had  formed  with  regard 
to  their  marriage,  would  now  be  idle,  nay,  more — 
presumptuous.  Such  instant  surrender,  it  may  be, 
showed  modesty  and  good  taste,  but  for  a  lover  he 
was,  perhaps,  resigned  too  soon.  Resignation  is  an 
heroic  virtue,  but  it  best  displays  its  spirit  after  a  sharp 
tussle  with  despair.  In  this  instance,  however,  it 
seemed  as  though  the  two  giants  had  merely  yawned 
at  each  other.  Mauden  had  not  the  smallest  doubt  of 
his  great  love  for  Jane,  notwithstanding  he  wrote  so 
seldom  and  a  cold  tone  had  crept  into  her  replies — all 
that  sort  of  thing  could  be  put  right  in  a  single  inter- 
view, when  the  time  came  for  a  serious  understanding, 
— or,  at  least,  it  might  have  been  put  right,  if  she  had 
not  inherited  this  beastly  money — and  the  beastlier 
title.  He  had  already  made  up  his  mind  not  to  enter 

897 


298  A  Study  In   Temptations. 

the  Church,  and  had  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  professorial 
chair.  Professor  Mauden  and  Lady  Jane  Mauden  did 
not,  in  his  opinion,  sound  well.  By  a  confusion  of 
ideas,  too,  Jane  Shannon  seemed  the  shadow  and 
Sophia  Jenyns  the  reality,  and  while  he  composed  his 
pretty  speeches  to  Jane,  he  rehearsed  them  (with 
appropriate  expression)  to  Sophia.  It  must  be  re- 
membered, he  was  quite  unaware  that  the  actress 
was  Wrath's  wife. 

Wrath  had  begun  his  Madonna,  and  when  he  was 
not  painting,  he  would  sit  in  rapturous  thought.  The 
Madonna,  too,  not  to  speak  irreverently,  had  Mar- 
garet's nose — and  Sophia's  nose  had  a  far  finer  shape 
than  Lady  Hyde-Bassett's.  Sophia  shed  bitter  tears 
over  the  agonizing  pettiness  of  the  whole  trouble  ; 
but,  in  the  first  place,  she  was  feeling  ill,  and  secondly, 
as  she  told  herself,  straws  show  which  way  the  wind 
blows.  That  her  husband  made  his  picture  like  Mar- 
garet, against  his  will — indeed,  unconsciously — was  a 
significant  and  appalling  fact :  his  very  St.  Joseph  had 
a  look  of  her.  Yet  Wrath  fondly  imagined  that  his 
work  was  purely  ideal,  flatly  opposed  to  realism,  all 
composed  from  the  unearthly  material  of  his  religious 
instinct.  These  reflections  and  a  constant  headache 
were  as  frank  in  their  villainy  as  the  stage-direction — 
"  Enter,  attendant,  with  two  murderers."  No  creatures 
for  compromise,  these  ! 

Sophia  was  strolling  in  the  garden  with  De  Boys 
one  afternoon,  and  found  herself  thinking  that  love 
was  a  mistake — it  made  one  too  unhappy  j  friend- 
ship, on  the  other  hand,  was  soothing  and  agreeable. 

"Social  conventions,"  De  Boys  was  saying,  "are 
the  gieatest  nuisance.  I  would  banish  them  with  a 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  299 

fiery  sword.  There  were  none  such  in  the  Garden  of 
Eden ! " 

"Ah,  but  in  the  Garden  of  Eden  there  was  only 
one  woman  !  "  sighed  Sophia. 

"Why,"  he  said,  in  an  injured  voice,  "do  you 
always  pretend  to  be  so  cynical  ?  I  do  not  see  why 
we  cannot  go  back  to — to  the  sort  of  existence — I 
mean  the  idyllic  and  perfect  state  of  Adam  and  Eve 
before  the  Fall.  Merely  viewed  as  a  philosophical 
experiment  it  might  at  least  be  attempted.  If  it 
proved  successful,  it  would  encourage  others " 

"  But  if  it  failed "  said  Sophia. 

He  cleared  his  throat.  "  You  must  let  me  translate 
for  you  some  tremendous  passages  from  the  *  Phae- 
drus,'"  he  replied.  "Plato  deals  with  the  whole 
question  as  only  a  poet  can — for  he  was  a  poet.  And 
I  think  you  will  say  with  me  that  it  is  a  poet's 
subject ;  its  philosophy  is  not  of  this  world,  but  is,  as 
it  were,  a  figure  of  the  True,  and  musical,  as  is 
Apollo's  lute.  I  cannot  agree  with  Browning  when 
he  speaks  of — 

'"The  heroic  for  earth  too  hard, 
The  passion  that  left  the  world  to  lose  itself  in  the  sky.* 

Why  give  so  much  consolation  to  those  who  have 
failed  to  realize  their  ideals — who  have  merely  aspired, 
and  utter  no  word  of  praise  to  those  who  have  actually 
attained  to  Higher  Things  ?  All  the  teaching  of  the 
present  day  seems  to  assume  that  no  man  or  woman 
ever  yet  accomplished  a  purpose,  or  thoroughly  be- 
lieved in  anything  or  anybody  ! "  It  is  so  delightful 
to  be  young,  and  long-winded,  and  able  to  believe,  at 


300  A  Study  in   temptations. 

least,  in  oneself !  **  A  hero,  nowadays,"  he  went  on, 
"  need  not  fight :  he  has  only  to  say  he  would  like  to 
fight  if  he  could!" 

"  You  have  so  much  moral  courage,"  said  Sophia, 
"  and  I  have  none  !  " 

"If  I  may  say  so,  I  think  you  are  the  most 
courageous  woman  I  have  ever  met.  You  have  not 
only  the  power  to  Will — but  to  Do." 

"I  fear  you  are  mistaken.  I  have  too  much  Do 
and  too  little  Will — if  you  understand  me." 

"  A  little  impulsive,  perhaps." 

"  I  can  only  resist  one  impulse  by  yielding  to 
another,"  said  Sophia.  "  I  know  my  own  character 
too  well.  I  need  a  restraining  force." 

De  Boys  drew  himself  up,  and  would  have  made  a 
fine  allegorical  study  for  any  of  the  heroic  virtues. 

"  You,"  he  said,  "  may  need  a  restraining  force  in 
the  same  way  that  a  highly  poetical  imagination 
requires  discipline  :  noble  desires  and  fine  thoughts 
must  not  be  wasted  on  that  *  chartered  libertine,'  the 
air."  The  breeze  stirred  a  maddening  curl  which 
fluttered  on  the  nape  of  Sophia's  neck,  and  the  young 
man  sighed.  So  for,  air  had  the  advantage  of  philo- 
sophy. 

"  A  woman  like  you,"  he  said,  "  so  extraordinarily 
gifted — I  speak  quite  impersonally — might  do  so  much 
by  refusing  to  accept  the  low  standard  of  existing 
morality.  We  want  some  beautiful  and  witty  saint : 
what  Wrath  might  call  ca  saint  in  drawing.'  It  is 
such  a  cruel  wrong  to  give  people  the  idea  that  only 
sinners  are  amusing  or  good-looking.  There  is 
sublime  beauty,  no  doubt,  in  the  mere  expression  of  a 
pure-minded  being  :  but  when  a  fine  spirit  is  set  in 


A  Study  in  'Temptations.  301 

fair  material,  and  she  can  flavour  her  chaste  conversa- 
tion with  Attic  salt,  her  influence  must  undoubtedly 
cover  a  larger  field  than  if  she  looked  dowdy  and 
talked  banalities.  And,  I  take  it,  a  woman  who  did 
not  accept  life  in  its  vanity,  would  find  no  possible 
pleasure  in  the  adornment  of  her  own  person :  she 
would  simply  regard  it  as  a  duty  which  she  owed  to 
society — one  which,  I  think,  would  come  under  the 
head  of  honouring  the  king  !  " 

Sophia  felt  her  enthusiasm  rising  towards  sainthood  : 
De  Boys  had  a  perfectly  charming  view  of  moral 
obligations. 

"  You  think,"  she  quavered,  "  it  is  a  duty  to  try — 
and  look — decent !  "  Two  hours  and  a  half  spent 
over  her  toilette  that  morning  needed  some  slight 
justification. 

De  Boys's  eyes  wandered  over  her  face  and  figure. 

"Unquestionably,"  he  said,  with  what  resembled, 
but  was  not,  calmness  ;  "  unquestionably,  a  duty." 

"  How,"  said  Sophia,  "  should  one  begin  if  one 
wished  to  rebel  against  existing  low  standards  of 
morality  ?  " 

"  By  the  silent  but  convincing  force  of  example," 
he  replied — "  by  your  actions." 

"  What  kind  of  actions  ?  "  she  asked.  "  You  know 
— I  have — "  she  blushed — "a  soup  kitchen." 

Delicious  simpleton  !  and  with  it  all,  a  genius  ! 

"  Soup  kitchens,"  he  said  gravely,  "  are  excellent ; 
but,  morally  speaking,  they  do  not  convey  anything 
but  soup." 

Their  eyes  met,  and  the  result  was  a  duet  in 
laughter. 

"  You  shall  not  make  fun  of  me,"  she  said  at  last. 


302  A  Study  in   Temptations. 

"  Make  fun  of  you !  As  if  I  could  make  fun  of 
you  ! " 

"  I  often  laugh  at  myself,"  she  said.  "  I  am  always 
ridiculous  j  even  when  I  am  unhappy  I  am  perfectly 
absurd.  All  my  tragedy  is  in  my  acting  j  my  real  life 
is  a  burlesque." 

"  But  when  are  you  unhappy  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  voice 
of  unfeigned  concern,  and  with  a  fierce  glance  at  the 
imaginary  offender.  "  When  are  you  unhappy  ?  " 

"  Often,"  said  Sophia  j  "  in  fact,  always.  I  am  so 
tired  of  being  treated  like  a  buffoon  !  Even  Wrath 

himself — even  Wrath,  my  first  and  dearest  friend " 

she  paused. 

"  Of  course,"  said  De  Boys,  swallowing  envy, 
hatred,  malice,  and  all  uncharitableness  at  one  gulp, 
"  he  must  be  your  dearest  friend." 

"All  my  life,"  she  faltered — "all  my  life — my 
friend ;  but  even  he  tells  me  that  I  act  well  only 
because  I  must.  And  is  not  that  in  itself  sufficient 
to  prove  that  he  regards  me  as  an  irresponsible  being — 
a  marionette  with  a  faculty  of  speech  ?  I  know  my 
words  are  often  very  silly,  but  my  thoughts  are  terribly 
serious.  Oh,  if  he  knew  how  serious  !  " 

De  Boys  himself  was  surprised  at  her  change  of 
manner — although  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  that 
she  was  absolutely  flippant.  He  had  explained  away 
her  whimsicalities  and  nonsense  as  the  vagaries  of 
genius.  What  would  have  looked  like  affectation  in 
a  woman  of  commonplace  attainments,  seemed,  at 
least,  pardonable  in  one  who  had  so  many  atoning 
qualities  ;  she  was  not,  however,  attractive  because 
of  her  foolishness,  but  in  spite  of  it.  Young  and 
inexperienced  as  Mauden  was,  he  felt  all  this  no  less 


A  Study  in  'Temptations.  303 

than  the  middle-aged  Wrath,  who  had  loved  Sophia 
too  long,  and  loved  her  too  deeply,  not  to  love  also 
with  wisdom.  The  difference  between  these  two 
men — the  one  who  loved  her  and  the  one  who  thought 
he  loved  her — was  shown  in  the  fact  that,  while 
Wrath  helped  her,  as  delicately  as  he  could,  to  over- 
come her  faults,  Mauden  encouraged  them.  Yet  such 
is  the  contrariety  between  effects  and  intentions,  that 
neither  Wrath  nor  Mauden,  nor,  be  it  said,  any 
human  creature,  could  give  Sophia  the  one  thing 
needful — peace  of  heart.  She  chafed  alike  under 
praise  or  blame :  no  one  understood  her,  no  one 
knew  what  she  really  meant  or  really  wanted  j  even 
her  nearest,  best,  and  dearest  misconstrued  her  ten 
times  a  day. 

"If  he  only  knew,"  she  repeated,  "how  serious  I  am ! w 
"You  must  remember,"  said  Mauden,  "there  are 
a  great  many  years  between  you ;  Wrath  probably 
regards  you  still  as  a  small  child.  It  was  and  is 
exactly  the  same  in  my  own  home  :  my  uncle — the 
kindest  and  most  generous  man  in  the  world — never 
can  understand  that  my  days  for  leading-strings  are 
past." 

Sophia  caught  her  breath :  De  Boys  had  plucked  up 
the  very  root  of  the  matter.  She  was  no  companion 
for  Wrath  :  he  thought  her  too  young — perhaps  she 
wearied  him,  just  as  children  occasionally  tire  even  the 
fondest  of  their  relatives.  It  was  only  natural  that  he 
should  find  Margaret  Hyde-Bassett's  society  so  pleasant: 
they  were  nearer  in  years,  they  had  both  lost  their 
sensitiveness  to  mere  impressions,  and  were  now  rather 
re-colouring  their  old  experiences  than  gaining  fresh 
ones. 


304  A  Study  in   temptations. 

"I  never  thought  of  that  before,"  she  said,  "but 
now  you  speak  of  it,  I  see  the  reasonableness  of  the 
idea.  It  explains  everything." 

"  But,"  said  De  Boys,  "  we  are  both  young :  we 
can  never  seem  children  to  each  other.  We  both 
know  that  we  are  responsible  beings,  that  we  are 
masters  of  our  fate :  that  we  are  under  the  law  of 
liberty." 

"  Masters  of  our  fate,"  repeated  Sophia ;  "  do  you 
believe  that  ? " 

"  How  can  I  disbelieve  it,"  he  said,  "  when  I  live 
and  have  the  evidence  of  each  day  to  convince 
me." 

Sophia  turned  her  face  towards  him.  "Tell  me," 
she  said,  "  what  I  must  do.  I  am  tired  of  thinking. 
The  world  seems  so  unreal  sometimes,  and  words  and 
people  and  things  lose  all  meaning.  But  I  could  be 
obedient,  I  could  do  what  I  was  told,  and  I  think — I 
could  be  happy  that  way.  I  want  to  escape  from  my 
own  commands  :  I — I  am  too  merciless  a  tyrant." 

"  Sophia  !  "  said  Mauden.  He  had  never  called  her 
Sophia  before  :  it  was  a  great  step  for  him,  but  she 
was  too  preoccupied  to  notice  it.  "  Sophia,"  he  said, 
again,  "can  we  not  both  be  obedient  to  our  best 
instincts  ?  can  we  not  follow  them — together  ?  " 

"  What  are  they  ? "  said  Sophia  j  "  and  can  we 
trust  them  ? " 

Before  he  could  reply,  the  sound  of  Wrath's  deep, 
rare  laughter  came  through  the  windows  which 
opened  on  the  lawn.  Was  it  thus  that  Madonnas 
were  painted  ? 

"  Finish,"  said  Sophia,  turning  pale — "  finish  what 
you  were  going  to  say — when  he  laughed." 


A  Study  in  temptations. 

"  I  think  I  could  write  it  better,"  said  De 
Boys. 

"  Do  you,  too,  write  ?  "  she  said.  "  A — a  friend  of 
mine  had — a  friend  who  never  told  her  anything,  but 
he  wrote  beautiful  letters — oh,  such  letters  !  and  then 
he  would  walk  up  and  down  the  room  while  she  read 
them."  Her  head  drooped  and  her  voice  trembled  ; 
these  reminiscences  were  heart-breaking.  "  But,"  she 
said,  looking  up,  "  you  are  not  at  all  like  the  man  who 
did  that :  you  are  quite — quite  different.  I  should 
have  thought  you  could  have  spoken  out." 

"  I  can,"  cried  De  Boys,  on  his  mettle — "  I  can  ! 
I  will,  now  that  you  have  told  me — I  may." 

"  Of  course  you  may"  said  Sophia,  "  because  my 
knowledge  of  you  assures  me  that  you  will  not  say 
anything — silly.  I  mean  something  which  ought  not 
to  be  said — or  written." 

"  Friendship,"  said  De  Boys — "  perfect  friendship 
casteth  out  fear.  Between  friends  there  ought  to  be 
no  dread  of  giving  offence." 

"  N — no  !  "  said  Sophia  ;  "  but  at  the  same  time  we 
must  not  think  that  our  friends  are  the  only  people  we 
can  treat  rudely,  and  with  unkindness." 

"  Unkindness  !  "  said  De  Boys.  "  How  can  you  so 
misunderstand  me  ! " 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  you,"  she  said.  "  At  that 
moment  I  had  other  friends  in  my  mind — women 
friends." 

This  was  only  a  half-truth,  and  it  flashed  across 
her  mind  that  it  was  not  easy  to  be  saintly  even  in 
the  course  of  a  most  innocent  conversation  :  one  could 
lie  in  all  circumstances  and  for  the  most  trivial  reason 
— indeed,  for  no  reason  in  the  world. 

21 


306  A  Study  tn   Temptations. 

"  The  ideal  union,"  began  De  Boys — "  the  union 
we  have  already  discussed " 

"  The  Before-the-Fall  ideal,"  she  said,  quickly.  "  I 
know." 

"  Why  could  not  we — would  you  be  willing — I 
should  say — would  you  mind  very  much — being  called 
my  wife  ? " 

"  My  dear  De  Boys  !  "  she  murmured,  with  maternal 
pity  and  affection — "  My  dear  De  Boys  " — and  she 
looked  at  him,  smiling  helplessly — "My  dear  De 
Boys!" 

Anything  more  chilling  to  lover-like  aspirations  is 
not  to  be  imagined.  Long  years  afterwards  the  echo 
of  that  motherly  "  My  dear  De  Boys  !  "  could  bring 
an  east  wind  on  the  warmest  day. 

"It  is  my  turn,"  he  said,  hotly,  a to  be  treated  like 
a  buffoon  when  I  am  serious  ! " 

"  Don't  say  that,"  said  Sophia  j  "  but — but  the  idea 
startled  me ! " 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  he  said,  eagerly  ;  "  because,  in  that 
case,  you  might  become  accustomed  to  it." 

"  First,"  she  murmured,  at  last,  "  let  us  clearly 
understand  what  the  idea  is." 

"  We  should  remain,  just  as  we  are — friends,"  said 
the  young  man,  "only  truer  friends  than  the  world 
understands  by  the  term  j  but,  as  a  concession  to  pro- 
priety, we  would  go  through  the  ceremony  of  marriage. 
It — it  is  rather  difficult  to  explain  in  detail :  the  ideal 
never  does  lend  itself  to  definition  !  " 

"  There  would  be  no  love-making — nothing  silly," 
said  Sophia,  "nothing  commonplace,  and  ridiculous, 
and  domestic  !  " 

"  Certainly  not." 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  307 

"  Then,"  said  the  lady,  "  suppose  we  tried  it  for 
a  little  before  we  actually  bound  ourselves  by  any 
religious  and  legal  form  ?  " 

He  saw  immediately  the  countless  advantages  of  this 
suggestion,  and,  as  they  unrolled  themselves  he  grew 
pale  at  the  ^advantages  of  his  first  plan.  It  is  the 
memory  of  peril  and  not  peril  itself  which  is  so  appal- 
ling. De  Boys  looked  back  at  the  last  ten  minutes  as 
he  might  have  glanced  at  a  thunderbolt  which  had 
missed  him  by  an  inch. 

"We  must,  of  course,  do  nothing  rash,"  he  said, 
"because  rashness  would  mar  the  harmony  of  the 
action.  To  do  things .  decently  and  in  order  is  the 
very  rhythm  of  existence." 

"I  will  think  it  well  over,"  said  Sophia,  "and  let 
you  know  my  decision  on  Monday ;  but  until  then  do 
not  refer  again  to  the  subject.  If  we  talk,  it  must  be 
as  though  this  conversation  had  never  taken  place." 

"  But  on  Monday,"  said  De  Boys,  "  I  must  leave." 

"Then,"  said  Sophia,  calmly,  "I  will  tell  you  in 
good  time,  so  that  you  may  make  the  necessary  pre- 
parations—  whether  I  have  decided  to  accompany 
you." 

"  But,"  he  stammered,  "  might  not  that  look  odd  ? 
Your  guardian " 

"  I  am  not  Wrath's  ward,"  she  said  j  "  I  am  my 
own  mistress.  Leave  everything  to  me." 

A  long  silence  followed :  they  sauntered,  one  of 
them  quite  blindly,  towards  the  house. 

"  I  fancy,"  he  said,  "  I  heard  the  dressing-gong." 

Sophia  thought,  that  although  he  was  a  better  con- 
versationalist than  Wrath  he  did  not  wear  so  well : 
two  hours  seemed  to  exhaust  the  fund  of  his  ideas 


308  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

Now  Wrath  could  maintain   an    interesting    silence 

from  year's  end  to  year's  end. 

"  Oh  !  the  difference  of  man  and  man  !  " 

Gentler  ladies  than  Goneril  have  had  occasion  to 

utter  the  same  lamentation. 


XI. 


IN   WHICH    ANOTHER   YOUNG   GENTLEMAN   DEFINES 
DUTY. 

THE  Dowager  Countess  of  Warbeck  found  Jane 
more  interesting  each  day  j  she  was  so  quiet  in 
manner,  so  sweet-tempered,  so  thoughtful,  so  sensible 
— in  fact,  the  Dowager's  letters  to  her  dear  friends  the 
Marchioness  of  Dayme  and  the  Lady  Dundry,  were 
always  overweight  during  that  period.  Her  notes  to 
her  grandson,  however,  were  brief,  telling  much  of  her 
own  ill-health  and  very  little  of  Jane.  The  Countess 
never  made  the  fatal  mistake  of  supposing  that  the  rest 
of  mankind  were  fools,  and  she  alone  had  wisdom  ; 
she  gave  every  creature  credit  for  a  certain  amount  of 
perception  and  a  great  deal  of  cunning.  For  this 
reason  her  machinations  usually  proved  successful. 
She  was  extremely  careful  not  to  drop  a  word  which 
might  excite  Warbeck's  suspicion  of  her  darling 
scheme ;  she  even  wrote  him  a  glowing  account  of  a 
new  debutante  who,  she  declared,  had  exactly  the  kind 
of  beauty  he  admired.  Her  heart  swelled  with  a  diplo- 
matist's pride  when  she  received  a  telegram  from  the 
young  peer  announcing  his  sudden  return  to  Eng- 
land. "Let  him  once  see  Jane,"  she  thought,  "and 
the  rest  is  inevitable." 

In  the  meantime,  his  portrait  (painted  by  Wrath, 


310  A  Study  in   Temptations. 

the  Academician)  was  placed  in  a  better  light,  and 
Jane  was  occasionally  reminded  that  although  the  work 
in  question  was  an  excellent  likeness,  it  did  not  do  the 
original  full  justice.  "  No  artist,"  said  the  Dowager, 
"  could  ever  catch  his  smile  !  " 

"  He  is  certainly  very  handsome,"  said  Jane. 
"  Grandfather's  nephew,"  she  added,  after  a  little  pause, 
"  is  also  handsome.  The  one,  you  know,  who  is  so 
clever  and  who  is  now  at  Oxford.  Would  you  like 
to  see  his  photograph  ?  " 

"  I  would,"  said  her  ladyship,  drily.  To  her  horror, 
Jane  unfastened  her  gown  at  the  throat  and  displayed 
a  small  locket  and  chain.  She  opened  the  locket  and 
handed  it,  with  a  blush,  to  her  grandmama. 

"  Not  a  bad-looking  person — for  his  kind,"  said  the 
Dowager,  not  at  all  bad-looking.  He  has  a  look  of 
Spence  "  (Spence  was  the  head  footman).  "  I  am  sure 
he  is  most  worthy.  But  I  would  not  wear  him  in  a 
locket !  It  might  give  stupid  people  the  idea  that 
you  were  in  love  with  him — and  there  are  so  many 
stupid  people  !  Besides,  if  it  came  to  his  ears  he  might 
think  the  same  thing.  Young  men  are  so  conceited." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Jane,  "  I  should  not  like  him  to  think 
that.  I — I  do  not  see  how  he  could.  He — he  isn't 
conceited,  and — and  he  is  not  a  bit  like  Spence  !  " 

"My  dear,"  said  her  ladyship,  "what  would  you 
say  yourself,  if  you  saw  a  young  girl  wearing  a  man's 
photograph  on  her  neck  ?  It  is  not  maidenly — in 
fact,  with  no  desire  to  hurt  your  feelings,  it  is  im- 
modest. I  appreciate  your  childish  and  innocent 
sentiment  in  the  matter — affection  and  gratitude  are 
always  charming,  even  when  sadly  misplaced  j  but 
you  are  no  longer  a  little  girl  running  wild  in  the 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  311 

fields.  The  only  person  you  could  wear  in  that 
fashion  would  be  your  husband,  or,  in  conceivable 
circumstances,  your  future  husband.  But  as  you 
have  neither  one  nor  the  other  at  present,  it  is 
more  seemly  that  your  neck  should  be  unfettered. 
Enjoy  your  liberty  while  you  may."  She  smiled 
her  sweetest — and  the  Dowager  could  smile  like 
an  angel  when  she  chose — but  Jane  sighed.  The 
chain,  however,  and  the  photograph  were  slipped  into 
her  pocket  j  she  could  not  be  immodest,  and,  no 
doubt,  her  grandmama  had  spoken  sound  sense. 

"  Play  me  that  exquisite  Presto"  said  the  Countess. 
"  I  doat  on  Beethoven  when  he  escapes  from  that 
terrible  diddledy-diddledy-diddledy  in  the  bass.  The 
Brentmore  person  really  taught  you  extremely  well. 
Take  it  at  a  good  pace." 

One  has  not  much  time  to  muse  on  the  absent  if 
one  is  playing  a  Presto,  and  an  active  kdy  marks  the 
time  with  her  cane. 

Warbeck  was  expected  to  luncheon  that  same  day, 
and  the  Countess  had  given  orders  that  he  was  to 
be  shown  into  the  library,  as  she  wished  a  few 
moments'  private  conversation  with  him.  Jane,  there- 
fore, was  half-way  through  the  Presto  when  his  lord- 
ship's arrival  was  announced. 

"  Don't  stop  playing,  my  dear,"  said  the  Dowager. 
"  I  so  like  to  hear  music  in  the  distance." 

Then  she  went  down  to  her  grandson. 

The  young  man  came  forward  as  she  entered  the 
room,  and  seemed  surprised,  delighted,  and  relieved  to 
see  her  walking. 

K  You  must  be  much  better,"  he  said  j  "  I  have 


312  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

been  so  anxious  about  you.  I  hardly  dared  hope  that 
you  were  even  on  the  sofa  !  " 

"  I  am  almost  myself,  dear,"  said  his  grandmother. 
"  I  began  to  improve  from  the  instant  I  received  your 
telegram.  Sir  Claretie  says  he  considers  my  recovery 
a  miracle.  But  you  are  not  looking  well." 

He  was  thinner  and  paler  than  he  had  been  a  fort- 
night since,  and  had,  in  some  way,  a  new  expression, 
an  even  greater  seriousness  of  manner. 

"  You  have  something  on  your  mind,"  said  her  lady- 
ship, suddenly  j  "  you  are  going  to  tell  me  that  you 
are  engaged  !  " 

Warbeck  smiled,  but  shook  his  head.  "  Cherchez 
la  femme  is  such  stale  doctrine,"  he  said. 

"  There  is  no  newer  doctrine  for  the  old  Adam  !  " 
said  the  Dowager  j  "  but  if  there  is  no  woman  in  your 
news,  then  it  has  something  to  do  with  religion.  Do 
not  say  that  you  have  been  reading  Hooker,  and  Laud, 
and  the  rest  of  them,  and  have  become  High  Church  !  " 

"  I  read  Hooker  and  Laud  long  ago,"  he  said,  "  but 
I  am  not  a  High  Churchman." 

"Then,"  she  said,  "you  are  a  Higher  Pantheist. 
Oh  dear  !  " 

"  To  save  you  further  suspense,"  he  said,  "  I  am  still 
— nothing.  But  I  have  joined  a  Celibate  Brother- 
hood." 

The  Countess  did  not  look  shocked,  but  her  aspect 
was  certainly  grave. 

"  It  means,  of  course,  the  end  of  everything — from 
an  ambitious  point  of  view,"  she  said,  slowly. 

"  I  think,"  said  Warbeck,  "  it  means  the  beginning 
of  everything — from  the  only  point  of  view  worth 
considering." 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  313 

"  Quite  so,"  said  her  ladyship — "  quite  so.  But 
there  is  neither  wisdom  nor  virtue  in  renouncing 
marriage  unless  you  fully  realize  what  marriage  is  and 
what  it  has  to  offer.  In  my  opinion  it  is  far  more 
difficult  to  be  a  married  saint  than  a  saint  in  the 
cloisters  ;  Bishop  Taylor  has  pointed  this  out  with 
much  eloquence.  Do  you  think  you  will  never  wish 
to  marry  ?  " 

Warbeck  laughed  with  the  buoyancy  of  a  mortal 
who  has  never  loved.  Before  he  could  reply,  the 
Countess  checked  him. 

"  I  see,"  she  said,  "  you  know  nothing  about  it.  I 
should  feel  better  satisfied  if  I  knew  that  you  had  had 
some  romantic  experience.  Because  if  it  does  not  come 
early — it  will  come  late.  And  then  what  trouble  !  I 
have  seen  such  unhappiness  come  of  people  assuming 
that  because  they  never  have  cared  for  any  one,  they 
never  will." 

"  You  see,"  said  Warbeck,  serenely,  "  if  a  man 
knows  that  he  is  under  a  vow  of  celibacy  the  ques- 
tion of  sex  becomes  a  dead  letter.  A  woman  is  merely 
an  individual !  The  effect  of  a  vow  is  almost 
miraculous." 

The  Countess  groaned.  "The  great  thing,"  she 
said,  "  is  to  be  saved  from  oneself,  and  oneself  so  easily 
passes  for  a  great  conviction  !  See  how  many  young 
people  gabble  off  the  marriage  vows  :  and  their  effect 
is  by  no  means  miraculous." 

"  Well,"  said  Warbeck,  naively,  "  when  you  con- 
sider what  a  large  proportion  of  humanity  take  them, 
you  must  admit  that,  on  the  whole,  they  observe  them 
very  faithfully.  Society  is  so  small  and  the  world  is  so 
large,  one  must  look  at  the  marriages  of  the  world." 


314  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

"This  brotherhood,"  she  said,  "this  society,  or 
whatever  it  is,  you  have  joined,  is  not,  I  understand, 
religious  ? " 

If  it  was  not  religious,  she  thought,  one  could 
wriggle  out  of  its  ridiculous  regulations,  and  even 
if  it  was,  one  could,  in  an  emergency,  change  one's 
religion  !  She  was  a  kdy  who  only  considered  im- 
pediments for  the  purpose  of  destroying  them. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Warbeck,  "  its  work  is  purely 
secular.  Dawes,  of  Balliol,  founded  it — you  know 
Dawes,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Dawes  ?  "  said  the  Countess.  "  Do  you  mean  the 
person  who  lives  at  Shoreditch  and  writes  to  the  Times 
about  the  Athenian  Democracy  ?  " 

Warbeck  nodded  his  head.  "  He  is  a  tremendous 
swell,"  he  said  ;  "  he  is  the  sort  of  genius  who  lives 
in  seclusion  and  animates  a  great  public  movement. 
There  must  always  be  a  grand  character  of  that  kind, 
who  can  despise  fame  and  use  ambitious  men  as  tools." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  the  Dowager  j  "  so  you,  I  pre- 
sume, are  in  this  Mr.  Dawes's  tool-basket  ?  " 

This  was  not  the  way  to  express  an  unselfish  young 
man's  devotion  to  a  noble  cause  ;  he  felt  this,  and  was 
deeply  hurt. 

"  If  you  like  to  put  it  that  way,"  he  said,  flushing  a 
little,  "yes — I  am  in  Dawes's  tool-basket.  I  hope, 
however,  it  is  not  because  I  am  vulgarly  ambitious.  I 
only  wish  to  perform  my  highest  duties  in  the  best 
way.  My  only  object  in  taking  the  vow  was  this — 
to  serve  the  public  well  one  should  have  no  private 
interests.  In  any  great  governmental  crisis  one  is  too 
often  reminded  of  the  man  in  the  parable  who  had 
married  a  wife.  It  is  time  some  one  realized,  that  self- 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  315 

sacrifice  is  the  only  sure  foundation  for  permanent 
success." 

"  H'm,"  said  the  Dowager ;  "  very  high-minded 
and  most  interesting.  But  the  British  Constitution 
does  not  present  any  opportunities  for  martyrdom  ;  at 
present,  no  politician  can  be  offered  a  worse  humi- 
liation than  a  peerage !  But  that  is  bad  enough,  I 
admit !  I  have  once  or  twice  thought  very  seriously 
of  dropping  my  title ;  it  has  lost  all  meaning,  and 
now  it  is  so  much  more  distinguished  to  be  a  com- 
moner !  But  come,  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  Jane. 
She  will  be  charmed  with  your  views  j  she,  too,  is 
full  of  heroic  nonsense." 

Jane  was  still  playing  when  the  Dowager  and 
Warbeck  came  upon  her. 

"This,"  said  the  Dowager,  "is  your  cousin 
Warbeck." 


XIL 

IN   WHICH   A   LADY  SPEAKS    HER   MIND. 

WHEN  Warbeck  dropped  his  cousin's  hand,  he  gave  a 
half-sigh.  He  never  shook  hands  with  either  men  or 
women  when  he  could  possibly  avoid  it  :  he  regarded 
the  act  as  a  sign  of  friendship  or  affection — not  one  to 
be  heedlessly  given.  This  idiosyncrasy  had  made  him 
many  enemies,  but  enemies  so  created  are  not  to  be 
greatly  feared. 

Jane's  hand  was  one  of  her  charms  j  it  was  white, 
delicate  in  shape,  and,  what  was  more,  firm,  and,  what 
was  more  than  all,  very  womanly.  It  seemed  made  to 
bestow  blessings.  Warbeck  was  extremely  sensitive 
to  moral  atmosphere  :  some  people  made  him  choke, 
others  gave  him  new  life.  He  was,  therefore,  quick  to 
appreciate  the  young  girl's  grace  and  purity,  and  to 
appreciate  her  was  to  remember  his  vow.  So  he  half- 
sighed. 

Jane  was  already  what  she  had  promised  to  be  when 
De  Boys  left  Brentmore — a  girl  of  singular  beauty. 
She  had  all  the  brilliance  without  the  self-conscious- 
ness of  Sophia  Jenyns,  and  for  that  reason  she  was, 
perhaps,  less  striking  at  first  sight.  Sophia  never  per- 
mitted herself  to  escape  attention.  Jane  did  not  care 
whether  she  was  noticed  or  ignored ;  she  knew  that 
she  was  far  from  plain,  (for  the  pretty  girl  who  is 

ignorant  of  her  own  comeliness  does  not  exist),  but 
316 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  317 

since  she  had  resolved  not  to  think  of  De  Boys  as  a 
lover,  she  had  lost  all  interest  in  her  appearance.  At 
one  time,  certainly,  she  had  longed  to  find  favour  in 
his  sight  and  so,  no  doubt,  had  sent  many  foolish 
wishes  after  the  perishable  and  fleeting  attractions  of 
feature  and  complexion.  But  this  was  a  weakness  of 
the  past — she  would  never  be  so  vain  again — ah, 
never  !  At  the  same  time,  when  she  saw  her  new 
cousin,  she  was  rather  glad  that  she  happened  to  be 
wearing  her  most  picturesque  gown. 

But  in  spite  of  the  agreeable  impression  each  had 
produced  on  the  other,  the  Dowager  found  them  both 
very  dull  during  luncheon.  Warbeck  talked  on 
prosaic  subjects  and  rarely  addressed  himself  to  Jane. 
The  Countess  observed,  too,  with  consternation,  that 
he  never  once  looked  at  his  cousin,  but  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  his  plate.  She  had  never  seen  him  so  stupid. 
As  for  Jane,  her  shyness  was  most  natural  and  becom- 
ing ;  she  was  a  girl  who  could  hold  her  peace  without 
sinking  into  inanity.  It  was  Warbeck  who  caused 
her  ladyship  uneasiness.  Like  most  determined 
women  she  could  only  be  discouraged  by  time — by 
the  wearing  off  of  enthusiasm,  mere  facts  could  not 
shake  her  purpose,  nor  opposition,  her  courage.  The 
shortest-lived  of  her  projects  at  least  died  a  natural 
death,  and  was  immediately  succeeded  by  a  direct 
descendant.  Having  made  up  her  mind  that  War- 
beck's  marriage  with  his  cousin  Jane  should  take  pjjice 
in  the  autumn,  her  ladyship  regarded  his  celibate  vow 
as  a  mere  piece  of  foolery ;  it  had  absolutely  no  bear- 
ing on  the  matter  in  point.  But  why  was  he  so 
depressing  in  his  manner  ?  Had  he  no  eyes  ?  no 
ears  ?  no  taste  ?  no  manliness  ?  With  all  his  heroics 


318  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

had  he  so  little  of  the  hero  that  he  remained  like  a 
stock  or  a  stone  in  the  presence  of  girlhood  and 
beauty  ?  If  this  was  the  influence  of  Dawes  of 
Balliol,  the  sooner  that  person  was  given  a  colonial 
appointment  the  better.  He  was  not  wanted  in 
London. 

When  luncheon  was  at  an  end,  Jane  was  obliged  to 
leave  'them,  as  she  had  an  engagement  to  drive  in  the 
Park  with  another  new  relation — a  lady  who  need  not 
detain  us,  since  she  was  only  remarkable  for  her  visit- 
ing list.  Warbeck  coloured  a  little  when  he  wished 
Jane  good-bye.  "  I  am  afraid,  too,"  he  added,  "  we 
shall  not  meet  again  for  some  time.  As  my  grand- 
mother is  so  much  better,  I  shall  return  to  France 
to-morrow."  He  held  the  door  open  for  her,  and 
again  half-sighed,  as,  having  wished  him  a  pleasant 
journey,  she  passed  out. 

"  Warbeck  ! "  said  the  Dowager,  "  surely  you  do 
not  mean  that  ?  You  are  not  going  away  again  ?  " 

"I  have  a  great  deal  of  work  on  hand,"  he  said, 
with  some  awkwardness.  "I  am  preparing  one  or 
two  speeches  and  a  short  pamphlet,  and  I  find  I  get 
fewer  interruptions  in  Veronne.  It  is  such  a  dull 
little  village.  There  is  only  one  man  there  I  can  talk 
to — Pere  Villard,  the  historian.  And  he  is  also  there 
for  quiet,  so  we  only  meet  to  argue  ! " 

"  But,"  said  her  ladyship — "but  what  do  you  think 
of  Jane  ?  "  She  could  scarcely  conceal  her  impatience. 

"  Your  letters,"  said  Warbeck,  after  some  hesitation, 
"had  given  me  no  idea — but  I  have  exchanged  so  few 
words  with  her.  I  certainly  did  not  expect  to  see  so 
— so — tall  a  girl !  " 

Lady  Warbeck  had  frequently  observed  that  a  man's 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  319 

language  became  ambiguous  as  his  sentiments  grew 
unmistakable.  She  gathered  fresh  hope. 

"  I  wonder  you  think  her  plain ! "  This  was  a 
stroke  of  genius.  It  surprised  him  into  candour. 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  think  her  lovely." 

"  H'm  !  But  she  is  not  silly  with  it — she  is  most 
intellectual." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it." 

The  Dowager  looked  at  the  ceiling.  At  some 
moments  one  can  claim  sympathy  even  from  the 
inanimate. 

"  She  will  no  doubt  marry  very  well." 

The  young  man  frowned.  "  She  is  so  young  yet," 
he  said.  "  Do  not  let  her  make  any  rash  engagement, 
if  you  can  possibly  keep  her  free.  It  is  so  easy  to 
bind  oneself,  and — and  so  impossible  to  escape  the 
consequences.  I  mean,  a  promise  may  be  made  in  aL 
sincerity  and  after  the  most  serious  consideration,  yet 

without   fully  realizing "      He   paused.      "I  am 

only  saying  this,"  he  said,  at  kst,  "because  a  girl 
takes  so  much  risk — even  in  the  most  favourable  cir- 
cumstances— when  she  marries.  Her  very  innocence 
is,  in  a  measure,  against  her." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  the  Countess,  drily,  "  that 
innocence  is  against  a  great  many  people." 

"  Not  a  great  manyy  my  dear  grandmother,"  he 
replied,  with  equal  dryness.  He  got  up  from  his  chair 
and  walked  to  the  window.  Jane  at  that  very  moment 
came  out  of  the  house  and  stepped  into  the  carriage. 
He  watched  her  drive  away. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I  can  work  much  better  at 
Veronne." 

The  Countess  began  to  wonder  whether  a  celibate 


320  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

vow  might  not  be  a  more  calamitous  invention  than 
she  had  at  first  suspected. 

"Warbeck,"  she  said,  "you  will  surely  think 
better  of — of  this  arrangement  you  have  made  with 
Dawes  ? " 

"  Think  better  of  it  !  "  he  repeated.  "  The  time 
for  thinking  about  it  is  past.  It  is  now  an  accom- 
plished fact.  My  word  has  been  given." 

"But  I  am  certain  you  will  regret " 

"It  is  not  a  step  I  would  ever  allow  myself  to 
regret,  nor  would  I  place  myself  in  a  situation  where 
I  might  be  even  tempted  to  regret  it.  I  made  it  with 
the  full  knowledge  that  it  might  possibly  involve  some 
slight  self-sacrifice.  Dawes  has  been  through  the 
mill :  he  was  most  careful  not  to  conceal  any  probable 
difficulty."  He  spoke  firmly  and  fixed  his  eyes  on 
hers  with  an  expression  which  she  recognized  as  the 
family  stubbornness. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  Countess,  quickly,  "  you  think  it 
would  be  safer  to  avoid  your  cousin  Jane.  That  is 
why  you  are  going  back  to  Veronne  ! " 

"  What  an  absurd  idea,"  said  her  grandson.  "  You 
must  think  me  very  susceptible." 

"  The  Shannons  are  all  alike,"  said  her  ladyship  ; 
"they  are  icebergs  to  all  women  till  they  meet  the 
right  one.  And  then  they  melt  at  a  glance.  Look 
at  Jane's  father — poor  Edmund.  He  saw  this  Battle's 
daughter  hanging  clothes  on  a  line,  and  fell  in  love 
with  her  on  the  spot.  Nothing  would  make  him 
reconsider  it  j  his  obstinacy  was  simply  criminal. 
But  in  your  case  matters  are  very  different.  Jane 
is  desirable  from  every  point  of  view  j  there  is  no 
reason " 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  321 

"There  is  every  reason,"  said  the  young  man, 
"why  we  must  change  the  subject.  You  must 
forgive  me,  but  I  cannot  discuss  it  further." 

"  I  will  speak  my  mind,"  said  the  Dowager.  "  You 
are  ruining  your  whole  life  for  a  whim — a  fad — -a 
piece  of  arrant  coxcombery.  It  is  not  even  religious — 
you  have  admitted  as  much.  What  can  I  call  it,  then, 
but  affectation  ?  In  a  year's  time — less — you  will  be 
ashamed  to  remember  it.  But  in  the  meanwhile " 

"  In  the  meanwhile,"  said  Warbeck,  "  I  can  at  least 
be  honourable.  And  now  I  think  we  have  talked 
enough,  my  dear  grandmother.  You  will  be  very 
tired." 

"  Tired  ?  I  am  perfectly  ill.  You  have  given  me 
my  death-blow  !  "  She  sank  back  in  her  chair,  and 
was  evidently  far  from  well.  Warbeck  knelt  down  by 
her  side  and  took  her  hand. 

"  You  would  not  have  me  behave  dishonourably," 
he  said  j  "  you  don't  seem  to  understand.  It — it  is 
not  always  so  easy  to  do  one's  duty  ;  is  it  fair  to  make 
it  harder  ?  But  it  must  be  done  in  any  case." 

"  Duty  ! "  she  said,  peevishly.  "  It  will  soon  be 
heroic  to  wear  no  collar  !  Foppery  !  twaddle  !  That 
a  man  in  your  position,  with  your  responsibilities, 
with  an  unblemished  title  to  support,  should  stoop  to 
such  indecent,  mawkish,  hysterical  balderdash  !  It  is 
scandalous  ! "  She  sank  back  again,  but  summoned 
her  remaining  strength  for  one  last  blow.  "  I  have 
lived  too  long  !  " 

"  You  are  very  cruel." 

"  I  have  lived  too  long  ! "  she  repeated. 

"  In  a  calmer  moment,  you  will  see  how  you  have 
wronged  me  !  " 

22 


322  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

«  Too— long." 

"  Shall  I  ring  for  your  maid  ?  " 

He  was  really  alarmed — she  had  changed  so  much 
in  the  last  ten  minutes. 

"  Twenty  maids  could  not  help  me  !  Warbeck — 
you  have  not  meant — what  you  have  been — saying  ?  " 
Her  voice  was  weak ;  she  looked  a  very  old  and  very 
feeble  woman.  And  he  loved  her  dearly.  "  Tell  me 
— you  did  not — mean  it,"  she  repeated. 

"  I  meant  it,"  he  said.     "  I  must  always  mean  it." 

"  But  in  the  circumstances,"  she  gasped,  "  this 
Dawes — he  would  absolve  you  from — your — promise." 

"  Dawes  !  "  said  Warbeck.  "  I  do  not  make  vows 
to  Dawes — nor  swear  by  Dawes.  As  I  have  said, 
you  do  not  understand  how  extremely  serious  a  vow 
of  this  kind  is." 

"You  distinctly  said  it  had  nothing  to  do  with 
religion,"  she  murmured.  "  How  can  it  be  serious 
when  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  religion  ? "  Her 
failing  eyes  were  only  weak  in  sight  :  they  could  still 
pierce  like  needles. 

"  I  can  respect  religious  scruples,"  she  went  on, 
"  but  I  have  no  patience  with  any  Daweses  of  Balliols  ! 
It  is  noble,  it  is  saintly  to  kill  your  aged  grandmother 
for  a  Dawes.  You  do  not  believe  in  a  God,  but  you 
will  ruin  your  family  for  a  Dawes  who  lives  at  Shore- 
ditch  !  I  am  tired  of  life  !  "  Once  more  she  bowed 
her  white  head.  "  The  country  is  going  to  the  dogs 
— and  Daweses  !  " 

"  My  dear  grandmother,  will  you  listen  to  reason  ?  " 

a  Reason  ?  "  she  groaned.  "  Every  bone  in  my 
body  fairly  aches  with  reason.  Ring  for  Coleman, 
that  I  may  get  to  bed  !  w 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  323 

He  had  his  hand  on  the  bell  when  Jane  entered  : 
she  had  returned  with  some  message  for  the  Dowager. 
When  she  saw  her  ladyship's  pallid  face  and  Warbeck's 
distress  she  looked  from  one  to  the  other  and  grew 
pale  herself. 

"  Grandmama,"  she  faltered,  "  are  you  feeling  ill  ?  " 

"  He  has  killed  me,"  said  the  Countess,  pointing 
to  her  grandson,  "he  has  given  me  my  death-blow. 
I  shall  never  recover."  She  rose  with  some  difficulty 
from  her  chair,  and  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height. 

"  Lean  on  me,"  said  Jane,  with  a  nice  disregard  of 
Warbeck. 

"  No,"  said  the  Dowager  ;  "  henceforth  I  lean  on 
no  one.  My  staff  has  failed  me  when  I  needed  it 
most.  When  I  can  no  longer  support  myself,  I  must 
fall.  Where  I  fall,  there  let  me  lie.  Remain  where 
you  are,  my  dear,  I  will  not  be  followed.  Solitude 
now  is  my  only  refuge  !  "  and  this  marvellous  invalid 
walked  out  of  the  room  with  grave  and  majestic  steps, 
leaving  Jane  and  her  cousin  Warbeck  face  to  face,  and 
alone. 


XIII. 

IN   WHICH    ANOTHER    LADY   SPEAKS    HER    MIND. 

JANE  was  now  able  to  observe  the  young  man  more 
critically  than  had  yet  been  possible,  and  the  more 
she  observed  him,  the  greater  effort  it  required  to 
maintain  her  just  indignation  at  his  conduct.  For,  of 
course,  he  must  have  behaved  most  brutally.  Had  not 
his  too  fond  grandmother  implied  as  much  ?  And  if 
she  had  said  so,  what  could  a  less  partial  witness  think  ? 

"  I  suppose,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  severe  voice,  "  you 
will  at  least  remain  in  London  until  she  is  well  enough 
to  see  you  again  ?  You  cannot  part  like  this." 

"  It  is  a  most  painful  misunderstanding,"  said 
Warbeck. 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  dictate,"  said  Jane,  in  a  tone 
of  command,  "  but  if  it  is  a  misunderstanding  you  will 
surely  lose  no  time  in  making  it  clear.  She  is  too  old 
for  these  violent  scenes.  And  she  has  had  a  great 
deal  of  sorrow  and  anxiety  lately  :  perhaps  she  is  not 
so  patient  as  those  who  are  young,  and  have  nothing 
to  worry  them  but  their  own  want  of  thought !  " 

This  authoritative  and  elderly  tone  in  one  so  young 
and  gentle  astonished  the  Earl,  no  doubt,  but  he  was 
so  far  from  feeling  any  resentment,  that  he  experienced 
some  difficulty  in  hiding  his  admiration. 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  make  it  all  clear,"  he  said, 
quietly,  "ever  since  I  arrived  this  noon.  The  only 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  325 

trouble  is,  that  she  refuses  to  listen.  I  have  tried  to 
be  patient,  and  I  hope  I  have  not  spoken  harshly. 
But  I  must  do  my  duty  whether  she  understands  it 
or  not.  The  quarrel  has  arisen — I  fear  we  must  call 
it  a  quarrel — about  a  question  of  duty — of  honour." 

Jane's  cheeks  began  to  burn  :  she  feared  he  might 
think  she  was  inquisitive.  And  inquisitiveness  was 
not  one  of  her  faults. 

"  Please,"  she  stammered,  "  please  do  not " 

But  he,  too,  was  sensitive,  and  had  very  delicate 
feelings. 

"  I  quite  understand  you,"  he  said  j  "  I  am  only 
afraid  you  will  not  understand  me.  My  dear  grand- 
mother has  a  genius  for  misrepresentation  :  she  can 
describe  what  she  sees  with  perfect  truthfulness,  but 
she  does  not  see  things  as  they  are.  In  this  particular 
instance  it  is  most  unfortunate.  For  honour  has  only 
one  aspect  :  it  is  not  a  matter  of  opinion,  but  an  in- 
controvertible fact." 

"  But  she  is  so  honourable  herself,"  said  Jane, 
eagerly ;  "  if  you  are  in  the  right  she  must  agree 
with  you — she  must.  Are  you  quite — quite  sure 
that  you  are  right  ?  It  is  almost  as  easy  to  do  wrong 
for  a  good  motive,  as  to  do  right  for  a  bad  one. 
There  are  always  so  many  reasons  why  we  should 
follow  our  own  wishes." 

"  On  the  whole,"  said  the  young  man,  slowly,  "  I 
may  say  there  is  no  danger  of  any  such  confusion 
arising  in  this  case  :  it  is  not  a  matter  where  my  duty 
is — is  perfectly  my  inclination.  If  it  were  not  a 
question  of  principle — of  moral  obligation,  I — I  might 
surrender." 

"  May  I  tell  her  that  you  will  reconsider  it  ? "  said 


326  A  Study  in  temptations. 

Jane.  "There  could  be  no  harm  in  saying  that, 
because  the  more  you  consider  what  is  right,  the 
nghter  it  seems." 

a  I  cannot  re-consider  it,**  he  answered,  looking 
away — "  I  cannot,  indeed  j  I  only  want  to  forget  it 
all  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me,"  said  Jane,  "  but  for  you 
— that  sounds  rather — rather  cowardly.  Oh,  I  ought 
not  to  have  said  that.  I  do  not  know  the  circum- 
stances. I  am  always  saying  something  thoughtless. 
Indeed,  I  did  not  mean  it." 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  he  said,  "  and  I  am 
cowardly.  But  it  is  one  advantage  that  I  know  my 
own  weakness  :  I  do  not  attempt  feats  beyond  my 
strength."  Yet  he  did  not  look  weak,  this  man  with 
a  square  chin  and  a  firm  mouth  :  anything  rather  than 
weak.  Jane  was  bewildered. 

"My  grandmother  knows  my  address,"  he  went 
on  ;  "  but  I  will  find  means  to  hear  how  she  is,  even 
if  she  does  not  care  to  write  to  me.  And — and  tell 
her  just  this  :  if  it  were  possible  to  accept  her  view, 
I  would  be  more  glad  than  I  could  say.  But  we  are 
nowhere  taught  that  duty  is  invariably  delightful. 
Good-bye." 

tt  Good-bye,"  said  Jane. 

When  she  looked  again,  he  was  gone.  And  she 
was  sorry  ;  for  he  had  a  winning  countenance.  If  she 
had  never  seen  De  Boys  she  would  have  thought  him 
ideally  handsome.  But-  De  Boys  was  a  king  to  him 
— although  he  was  poor  and  not  a  person  one  might 
wear  in  a  locket  1 


XIV. 

IN    WHICH    TWO    LADIES    ACT    WITHOUT    THINKING. 

SOPHIA  had  resolved  to  make  some  appeal  to  Wrath 
before  the  decisive  Monday,  but  she  could  not  resolve 
on  a  grievance.  To  assign  jealousy  as  the  cause  ot 
her  discontent  was  out  of  the  question.  And,  as  a 
matter  of  feet,  she  did  not  want  to  analyze  her 
feelings  :  she  feared  calmness  as  fire  might  dread 
water.  She  only  cared  to  survey  her  imaginary 
wrongs  with  a  poetic  contempt  for  base  details  ;  she 
did  not  choose  to  torture  her  heart  with  questionings, 
nor  demonstrate  her  husband's  innocence  by  proving 
herself  a  fool.  So,  on  Sunday  afternoon,  she  wrote 
two  notes — one  to  De  Boys,  the  other  to  her  husband. 
This  was  the  one  to  De  Boys,  which  she  gave  him 
with  her  own  hands,  between  the  decorous  covers  of 
an  hymn-book,  the  same  evening  : — 

"  You  must  tell  them  that  you  intend  to  walk  to 
Barnet  station  early  to-morrow  morning,  and  leave 
by  the  eight  o'clock  train.  Your  portmanteau  and 
things  can  be  sent  after  you  later.  This  will  save 
you  from  the  breakfast-table  and  tedious  good-byes. 
I  will  meet  you  at  the  cross-roads,  and  we  can  discuss 
our  future  pkns  during  the  journey  to  London. 

Leave  everything  to  me.     For  the  present,  of  course, 

327 


328  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

you  must  return  to  Oxford  and  complete  your  educa- 
tion.—S.  J." 

This  was  the  letter  to  her  husband  : — 

"  I  have  discovered  a  new  meaning  in  life  and  a 
new  duty.  (Never  believe  that  I  will  disgrace  you.) 
My  weakness — I  had  almost  written  my  sin — has 
been  my  love  for  yourself.  But  we  were  not  sent 
into  the  world  to  love.  Subjectivity  is  fatal  to  Art : 
all  great  Art  is  objective.  And  love  is  subjectivity 
in  its  lowest  phase.  I  use  these  philosophical  terms 
because  they  are  convenient,  and  because  they  are  suffi- 
ciently comprehensive  to  cover  all  subtle — and  perhaps 
agonizing — distinctions.  I  hope  the  Madonna  will 
prove  your  greatest  work.  I  will  write  to  Margaret 
from  town.  Please  tell  her  this. — Your  unhappy 
SOPHIA. 

"P.S.— I  shall  consult  Sir  Ckretie  Mull  the 
moment  I  reach  London.  I  am  perfectly  certain 
that  I  am  consumptive.  But  do  not  worry  about 
my  health.  I  feel  no  pain — only  a  great  sense  of 
approaching  peace" 

She  wept  very  much  over  this  letter,  and  felt 
extremely  like  the  heroine  of  a  psychological  romance. 
To  complete  the  illusion  she  had  taken  care  to  attire 
herself  in  flame-coloured  silk,  made  a  la  sainte  martyre^ 
with  silver  cords  knotted  round  her  waist,  and  opals 
scattered  on  her  breast.  She  put  out  the  light,  and  let 
the  moonbeams  stream  in  upon  her.  It  was  a  grand 
situation.  Musing  on  her  own  sublimity  and  suffer- 
ing, she  fell  sound  asleep  on  the  couch.  Fortunately^ 
it  was  in  the  summer-time. 


A  Study  in  temptations.  329 

When  she  awoke  it  was  morning — Monday  morn- 
ing— and  half-past  six.  At  that  very  moment,  De 
Boys,  no  doubt,  was  leaving  the  house.  She  threw 
off  her  garments,  plunged  into  a  cold  bath  (which, 
perhaps,  was  unlike  a  psychological  heroine),  and 
dressed  herself  in  clinging  black.  A  large  hat  and 
a  thick  veil  gave  the  final  touches  to  her  unim- 
peachably  correct  costume.  Any  fairly  well-read 
observer  would  have  known  at  once,  that  she  was 
a  misunderstood  and  cruelly  injured  woman,  about 
to  elope  with  her  only  friend. 

She  opened  her  bedroom  door  and  peeped  out  : 
there  was  no  one  in  sight.  The  servants,  too,  even 
did  she  meet  them,  were  accustomed  to  the  habits 
of  celebrities  on  a  visit.  At  The  Cloisters  nothing 
was  remarkable  but  the  commonplace.  She  passed 
two  maids  and  an  under-footman  on  her  way  to  the 
room,  which  had  been  temporarily  arranged  as  a  studio 
for  Wrath.  But  neither  the  maids  nor  the  footman 
showed  the  smallest  surprise  when  they  saw  her. 

Sophia  left  her  letter  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  fled 
from  the  room  through  the  French  casement.  Wrath 
had  done  well,  she  thought,  to  turn  his  odious  picture 
to  the  wall :  she  could  never  have  passed  it  else — 
the  fascination  of  recognizing  Margaret's  nose  was 
too  engrossing.  Under  its  enchantment,  hours  sped 
like  minutes. 

As  she  crossed  the  lawn  she  cast  a  glance  over  her 
shoulder  at  Wrath's  window.  The  curtains  were 
not  yet  drawn :  he  was  probably  sleeping — sleeping 
while  she 

A  sob — and  then  for  the  cross-roads,  De  Boys, 
and  the  Ideal. 


330  A  Study  in  'Temptations. 

Miss  Eliza  Bellarmine,  having  much  to  say  on 
the  burning  question  of  Milton's  precise  meaning 
when  he  spoke  of  a  two-handed  engine  at  the  door  " 
(a  phrase  so  beautifully  imitated  by  a  modern  poet  in 
the  striking  lines  : — 

"  At  the  door  two  hands  are  knocking — 
Hands  of  locomotive  might ") — 

Miss  Ella  Bellarmine,  having  much  to  say  on  this 
great  matter,  had  arisen  at  crack  of  dawn  to  commit 
her  criticism  to  foolscap.  By  half-past  seven  she  had 
explained  Milton  for  all  time,  and  disposed  of  his 
modern  imitator  as  "  a  person  of  vigorous  imaginative 
faculty,  but  no  education."  Her  task  finished,  she 
strolled  out  into  the  garden.  It  had  been  raining 
during  the  night,  and  she  found  herself  observing 
footmarks  on  the  gravel  path.  The  marks  were 
small,  and  had  undoubtedly  been  made  by  Sophia 
Jenyns.  No  one  else  in  the  house  wore  such  pre- 
posterous French  shoes. 

Now  Miss  Bellarmine  was  a  lady  who  could  put 
two  and  two  together,  and  make  any  required 
number.  She  had  not  been  blind  to  the  sympathetic 
relations  which  existed  between  Mr.  De  Boys  Mauden 
and  Mrs.  Wrath.  (She  was  always  studiously  careful 
to  think  of  the  actress  as  Mrs.  Wrath).  As  a  con- 
sequence, she  had  thought  herself  prepared  to  see 
footprints — anywhere.  Eliza  had  very  cynical  and, 
of  course,  very  mistaken  ideas  about  the  artistic 
temperament.  But  in  her  secret  heart,  and  very 
much  against  that  grim  adviser — her  better  judgment 
— she  was  strongly  attached  to  the  blithe  Sophia,  and 
now  she  saw  that  the  footmarks  had  their  ridiculous 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  331 

toes  pointed  towards  the  carriage-drive,  she  was  filled 
with  an  unreasonable,  but  very  real  alarm.  She 
hurried  into  the  studio  by  the  same  window  that 
Sophia  had  left  it  some  little  time  before,  and  her 
quick  eyes  went  straight  to  the  letter  on  the  mantel- 
piece. She  read  the  initials  "T.  W.,"  which  were 
written  on  the  envelope  in  an  irresolute,  childish 
hand. 

A  woman's  instinct  is  rarely  at  fault ;  it  is  only 
when  she  attempts  to  argue  with  it  that  she  blunders. 
Fortunately  Eliza  trusted  her  instinct  at  that  par- 
ticular moment.  She  knew  that  De  Boys  had  left 
The  Cloisters  that  morning  and  after  a  somewhat 
mysterious  fashion.  Had  Sophia  gone  with  him  ? 
If  she  had,  she  would  surely  repent  before  she  reached 
London.  She  had  been  unusually  erratic  lately,  and 
Miss  Bellarmine  held  her  own  private  opinion  with 
regard  to  Sophia's  state  of  health.  It  was  extremely 
interesting — no  doubt,  trying — but  not  dangerous  ; 
Lady  Hyde-Bassett  had  the  same  private  opinion  ;  so, 
too,  had  all  the  women  of  the  household — from  the 
housekeeper  to  the  scullery- maid.  But  these,  not 
knowing  of  Miss  Jenyns's  marriage,  could  only  hope 
that  the  Lord  would  forgive  them  if  they  were 
mistaken — a  pious  wish  which  they  repeated  many 
times  a  day,  together  with  their  possibly  wrong 
surmise. 

Eliza's  fingers  wandered  to  the  envelope.  What 
folly  might  it  contain  ?  what  mischief  might  it  cause, 
which  neither  repentance  or  explanation  could  unsay 
or  undo  ?  What  right  had  Sophia — in  no  matter 
how  interesting  a  condition — to  play  such  dangerous 
pranks  on  a  man  like  her  husband  ?  Did  she  deserve 


332  A  Study  in  'Temptations. 

to  be  forgiven  ?  Eliza  heard  Wrath's  voice  in  the 
distance,  and  without  further  hesitation  she  slipped 
the  envelope  under  the  clock.  She  would  give  the 
little  fool  a  chance.  If  she  did  not  return  within  two 
— three — at  the  most,  four  hours,  Eliza  knew  that 
she  could  easily  find  means  of  bringing  the  note  to 
light.  And  then  she  left  the  room,  smiling.  Per- 
haps she  had  been  able  to  render  Wrath  a  small  act 
of  friendship,  and,  although  he  himself  could  never 
know  of  it,  this  would  be  a  great  happiness  for  her 
to  remember. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  peeped  in  at  the  window. 
He  had  entered  the  room  and  was  looking  at  a  sketch 
of  Sophia  which  hung  on  the  wall.  Eliza  stole  away, 
feeling  like  a  conspirator. 


XV. 

IN   WHICH    THE    NEW    EVE    AND    THE    NEWER   ADAM 
GROW    ABSENT-MINDED. 

DE  BOYS  stood  waiting  at  the  cross-roads  when 
Sophia  appeared  in  sight.  He  hastened  to  meet  her, 
his  countenance  showing  the  decent,  temperate,  and 
subdued  enthusiasm  which  befitted  the  pioneer  of  a 
great  philosophical  experiment.  Sophia,  most  un- 
reasonably, thought  his  manner  cold — not  that  she 
would  have  seen  him  otherwise.  The  Ideal  was 
founded  on  ice — eternal,  Arctic. 

"We  are  fortunate  in  our  day,"  she  said,  in  a 
quaking  voice  j  "  it  is  delightful  walking.  But  I 
am  rather  tired.  Is  there  any  place  where  I  can 
rest  ?  " 

De  Boys  looked  about  him  j  it  was  obviously  im- 
possible that  she  could  rest  on  the  ground,  and  on 
either  side  of  them  were  high  hedges. 

"  If  you  can  manage  to  go  on  a  little  further,"  he 
said,  "we  may  find  a  cottage — or  something  !  But 
I  am  afraid  we  have  not  much  time.  The  train " 

"But  there  are  lots  of  trains,"  said  Sophia,  wearily, 
"and  there  is  no  hurry." 

"  Will  you  take  my  arm  ?  "  said  De  Boys.  "  We 
shall  not  meet  any  one,  and  if  we  do " 

She  shrank  back  j  the  only  arm  she  ever  permitted 
herself  to  rest  on,  was  Wrath's. 

333 


334  ^  Study  in  temptations. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  she  said,  "  I  hate  taking  people's 
arms  !  " 

The  young  man  coloured,  and,  in  an  aggrieved 
tone,  murmured  an  apology. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  take  a  gloomy  view  of  things," 
she  said,  with  a  certain  severity,  "  nor  do  I  want  to  be 
disagreeable,  but  I  hope  we  are  acting  wisely.  I  hope 
we  are  not  doing  wrong  !  " 

"  I  hope  not,"  he  said,  with  appalling  seriousness. 

She  shivered,  although  it  was  a  warm  morning. 

"  Of  course,"  he  went  on,  "  I  obeyed  your  instruc- 
tions, because  a  woman's  tact  is  generally  acknow- 
ledged to  be  the  best  in  such  matters.  But  I  will 
not  conceal  from  you  that  I  could  wish  it  might  have 
been  arranged  a  little  more  openly :  I  mean,  without 
giving  it  this  clandestine  air  which — which  is  not 
altogether  pleasant.  It  looks  too  much  like  running 
away — and  running  away  is  low  !  Your  note  was 
most  characteristic :  it  reminded  me  of  our  first 
meeting.  Do  you  remember  it  ?  when  you  told  me 
that  you  only  saw  the  honeysuckle  ! " 

He  glanced  at  her  sideways  and  thought  she  was 
not  looking  so  much  like  Jane  as  usual.  But  she  was 
still  lovely — he  could  forgive  her  a  great  deal.  Such 
is  the  magnanimity  of  the  wise  gander  in  his  judg- 
ment of  the  endearing,  if  inconsequential,  goose. 

"  Do  not  think,"  he  said,  "  that  I  fail  to  appreciate 
your  courage.  You  are  only  too  dauntless  !  You  do 
not  see  the  dangers  which  would  appal  a — a  more 
ordinary  mortal.  Oddly  enough,  after  you  had  left 
the  drawing-room  last  night  Wrath  said  he  had 
hoped  to  paint  you  as  Alcestis — the  ideal,  courageous 
woman,  you  know,  who  died  in  her  husband's  stead." 


A  Study  in  temptations.  335 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Sophia,  faintly,  "  what — what  else  did 
he  say  ?  w 

"  He  did  not  say  anything  else,"  said  Mauden. 

"  How  did  he  look  when  he  said  it  ?  " 

"He  was  looking  at  your  photograph,"  said  De 
Boys.  His  thoughts  had  wandered  to  the  time  when 
he  had  last  walked  on  a  country  road  at  that  hour  in 
the  morning.  Jane  had  been  with  him  then.  How 
long  ago  it  seemed  !  Did  it  seem  so  long  to  Jane  ? 
Was  she,  like  all  women,  fickle  ?  Had  she  forgotten 
him,  in  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  her  new 
position  ?  He  drew  a  deep  sigh. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Sophia,  "  was  Wrath  looking  happy, 
or  tired,  or  interested,  or  anything  ?  " 

"I  think  he  was  rather  sleepy,"  said  De  Boys, 
"or  at  least  I  was.  .  .  .  Did  I  ever  tell  you  how 
much  you  remind  me  of  a  Miss  Shannon  ?  She  is 
Lady  Jane  Shannon  now.  But  at  one  time  I  knew 
her  very  well." 

"  Really  ?  "  said  Sophia.  "  You  must  tell  me  about 
her.  ...  I  suppose  it  would  be  considered  a  com- 
pliment to — to  be  asked  to  sit  for  Alcestis  ?  " 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  De  Boys — "undoubtedly.  .  .  . 
Yes,  as  I  was  saying,  you  bear  the  most  extraordinary 
resemblance  to  Jane.  But  while  your  hair  is  black, 
hers  is  a  kind  of  russet  gold " 

"  Russet  gold  ?  How  lovely  !  and  so  fashionable. 
.  .  .  What  did  Margaret  say  when  Wrath  said  he 
intended  to  paint  me  ?  " 

"I  don't  think  she  said  anything.  ...  I  wish 
you  could  know  Ja — Lady  Jane.  She  has  so  much 
originality.  I  am  sure  you  would  become  great 
friends." 


336  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

w  Ye — es.  ...  I  suppose  Margaret  looked  as  though 
he  ought  to  have  asked  her  to  be  Alcesth  ?  " 

But  De  Boys  did  not  hear  :  he  was  wondering 
whether  Jane  and  Sophia  really  could  become  great 
friends.  Would  Jane  quite  grasp  the  Before- the-Fall 
Ideal  ?  Would  there  be  any  difficulty  in  explain- 
ing  

"  Of  course,"  said  Sophia,  suddenly,  "  women  must 
feel  flattered  when  Wrath  wants  to  paint  them.  To 
begin  with,  he  is  a  very  handsome  man." 

"  Very  handsome  indeed  !  "  sighed  Mauden.  He 
was  thinking  of  Jane. 

"  He  gives  one  such  an  idea  of  power,"  said  Sophia  j 
"  the  moment  you  see  him  you  feel { Here  is  some  one 
to  trust.' " 

"Jane  is  the  sort  of  girl,  you  know,"  said  De  Boys, 
"  that — that  you  meet  once  and  never  forget.  It  is 
not  merely  because  she  is  beautiful.  Her  beauty — 
which  is  very  great — is  her  least  charm." 

"  Indeed  !  I  can  well  believe  it.  It  is  only  within 
the  last  two  years  that  I  have  realized  how  very  hand- 
some Wrath  is.  Is  it  not  absurd  ?  when  I  have  been 
with  him  ever  since  I  was  born  !  But  if  you — care 
— for  people,  and,  of  course,  I — care  for  him " 

"  Naturally,"  said  Mauden  ;  "  and  it  is  very  singular, 
but  if  you  love  people,  you  don't  know  what  you  love 
them  for  until  you  lose  them.  And  then " 

"  Don't  say  until  you  lose  them,"  faltered  Sophia, 
"  that  sounds  so — awful !  " 

"  It  does,  doesn't  it  ?  "  said  Mauden  ;  "  the  sense  of 
loss,  of  being,  as  it  were,  eternally  separated,  is  very 
terrible.  And  death  is  not  the  only  veil :  sometimes 
our  own  folly  .  .  .  and  when  we  have  only  our  own 


A  Study  In  'Temptations.  337 

folly  to  blame  it — it  is  so  hopeless  and  so  much  harder 

to  bear  than "  Where  was  his  fluency  ?  his 

command  of  language  ?  Could  it  be  that  as  thoughts 
became  real,  words  grew  meaningless  ? 

"  We — that  is  Jane  and  I — grew  up  together,"  he 
went  on  j  "  we  are  not  related,  but  it  always  seemed 
as  though  we  were.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  we  were 
like  brother  and  sister,  but " 

"  I  understand,"  said  Sophia,  eagerly,  "  it  is  the 
same  with  Wrath  and  myself.  It  is  true  that  I  have 
never  regarded  him  as  my  father,  but,  as  you  say,  a 
sort  of  relationship " 

"  Have  you  left  him  any  word — any  explanation  ?  " 
said  De  Boys,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  wrote  him  a  letter,"  said  Sophia.  "  Not  exactly 
the  sort  of  letter  one  would  write  to  a  guardian,  you 
know,  but  nicer  !  Do  you  think  he  will  consider  me 
ungrateful  not  to  have " 

"  I  am  afraid  he  may,"  said  Mauden. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  generous  he  has  always 
been,"  she  said.  "  I  would  not  like  him  to  think  me 
ungrateful.  .  .  .  Mr.  Mauden." 

"Yes." 

"  If  you  don't  mind,"  she  said,  weakly,  "  I  think  I 
won't  go  to  London  to-day." 

The  young  man  tried  not  to  look  indecently 
thankful. 

"  But,"  he  said,  "  you  cannot  go  back  alone.  And 
your  letter  ?  " 

"  Luckily,"  she  answered,  "  I  did  not  mention  your 
name  in  the  letter.  I  can  explain  all  that.  He  won't 
be  angry  with  me."  She  burst  into  tears.  "  He  has 
never  been  angry  with  me  in  his  life  !  I  wish  now  he 


338  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

had  given  me  one  or  two  good  shakes.  I  am  so 
wicked  !  He  has  brought  me  up  very  badly — every- 
body says  it !  w 

"  Don't  cry,"  said  Mauden. 

"  I  can't  help  it.  ...  And  I  feel  so  ill.  I  haven't 
had  any  breakfast.  I  am  not  fit  to  be  alone.  My 
father  was  just  the  same  :  he  killed  himself  j  he  never 
would  think  things  over,  and  I  am  just  like  him  ; 
Wrath  has  always  said  so." 

Mauden  did  not  feel  in  a  mood  to  gainsay  Wrath's 
opinion.  In  fact,  his  reverence  and  admiration  for 
Wrath's  saintliness  and  long-suffering  were  increasing 
every  moment. 

"  Suppose,"  he  said,  "  we  both  go  back  to  him  and 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  Sophia,  "  you  mustn't  come.  I 
would  not  have  Margaret  know  a  word  about  it  for 
the  world." 

"  I  must  see  you  safely  within  the  gates,  at  all 
events,"  said  Mauden,  with  firmness.  She  had  already 
turned  and  was  walking  at  a  rapid  pace.  Her  fatigue 
was  no  longer  apparent. 

"  You  are  not  to  come  with  me,"  she  said,  with  her 
eyes  fixed  in  the  direction  of  The  Cloisters. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  De  Boys,  "  but  I  must." 

"  I  insist,"  said  Miss  Jenyns,  "  on  returning  alone. 
I  will  not  be  made  ridiculous  !  " 

He  halted,  took  off  his  hat,  and  waited  until  she 
had  advanced  some  yards  in  front  of  him.  At  this 
discreet  distance,  he  followed. 

"  I  will  write  to  you,"  she  called  over  her  shoulder  j 
"but  I  have  made  a  great  mistake.  I  shall  be  ex- 
tremely ill  after  this  ! 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  339 

He  bowed  again,  but  still  followed. 

"  Do  you  wish,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  to  compromise 
me  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  leave  you  unprotected,"  said  Mauden, 
getting  pale.  He,  too,  had  a  temper. 

"  I  came  here  alone,  and  I  presume  I  can  return 
alone.  Please  do  not  make  me  angry." 

Matters  were  at  this  unhappy  stage  when  they  heard 
the  rumble  of  wheels.  Presently  a  grocer's  cart 
appeared  at  the  far  end  of  the  road. 

"  I  will  ask  this  man  to  drive  me  back,"  said 
Sophia.  Then  she  gave  Mauden  a  fiery  glance. 
"  We  shall  be  the  talk  of  the  county  !  " 

"  Possibly,  too,  of  London,"  he  observed. 

"  You  should  not  have  exposed  me  to  this,"  she 
went  on  j  "  it  was  unkind.  Consumption  is  in  my 
family,  and  it  is  well  known  that  consumptives  are  not 
responsible  for  their  conduct !  "  She  hailed  the  grocer 
with  a  royal  gesture. 

"  I  have  walked  too  far,"  she  said,  when  he  stopped, 
"  will  you  kindly  take  me  to  The  Cloisters  ?  " 

When  she  found  herself  actually  seated  in  the  cart, 
her  customary  good-humour  returned.  She  lifted  her 
veil  and  flung  an  artless  smile  to  heaven. 

"  How  my  husband  will  laugh  when  I  tell  him  !  w 
she  said. 

Even  months  afterwards,  Mauden  was  unable  to 
explain  her  motive  in  making  this  astounding  remark 
at  that  particular  moment.  When,  however,  in  later 
years  he  confided  the  whole  episode — together,  of 
course,  with  every  other  episode  of  his  bachelor  career 
—to  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  (who,  for  the  present, 


34°  -^  Study  in  'Temptations. 

shall  be  nameless),  she  expkined  it  without  an  instant's 
hesitation. 

"She  referred  to  her  husband,"  said  the  lady, 
"  entirely  for  the  benefit  of  the  grocer's  man  !  She 
was  not  even  thinking  of  you  !  " 

At  which  he  could  only  look  incredulous.  But  he 
was  nevertheless  impressed  by  the  truth  of  her  asser- 
tion. 


XVI. 

IN  WHICH   A   FARCE    IS   PLAYED    VERY  SERIOUSLY. 

BREAKFAST  was  always  served  punctually  at  nine 
o'clock  at  The  Cloisters.  As  the  clock  chimed  the 
hour,  Lady  Hyde-Bassett  would  descend  the  stairs, 
and  woe  to  the  guest  who  was  not  there  to  observe 
her  freshness  and  vivacity.  On  this  one  point,  she 
was  as  unreasonably  severe  as  all  malleable  men  and 
women  are,  who  make  up  their  minds  to  be  unyielding 
on,  at  least,  one  subject.  When  she  entered  the 
breakfast-room,  therefore,  on  that  eventful  Monday 
morning,  and  saw  no  Sophia  Jenyns,  her  eyebrows 
began  to  twitch.  Wrath  was  reading  the  Times,  and 
Miss  Bellarmine  was  studying  a  new  novel,  which 
dealt  with  the  evolution  of  the  soul  from  protoplasm 
to  immortality — a  work  to  be  attacked  when  the  mind 
was  not  predisposed  to  slumber. 

"  Where  is  Sophia  ?  "  said  Margaret,  having  wished 
them  both  good  morning. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Wrath.     "  Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  said  Eliza,  slowly,  "  she  has  gone  for  a 
short  walk." 

"  At  this  hour,"  said  Margaret,  u  and  without  her 
breakfast  ?  " 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  ?  "  said  Wrath. 

"  I  believe,"  murmured  Eliza,  "  she  said  last  night 
341 


342  A  Study  in  'Temptations. 

that  she  intended  to  try  an  early  prowl.  Did  you  not 
hear  her  say  so  ?  " 

It  was  very  extraordinary,  but  neither  of  them  had 
heard  Sophia  make  the  remark. 

"  But  young  Mauden "  began  Lady  Hyde- 

Bassett. 

She  caught  a  beseeching  glance  from  Eliza,  and  felt 
a  sharp  step  on  her  toe.  They  were  now  sitting  at 
the  table. 

"  Young  Mauden,"  she  went  on,  calmly,  "  was  very 
wise  to  go  by  that  eight  o'clock  train." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Wrath,  suddenly,  "  Sophia  would  not 
wander  about  the  country  like  a  Tom  o'  Bedlam.  I 
know  she  is  studying  Ophelia^  but  all  the  same,  it  is 
most  annoying  !  " 

The  two  women  dared  not  look  up.  But  they 
were  holding  a  conversation  without  words,  which  is 
not  a  difficult  feat — although  few  mortals  seem  aware 
of  it — when  minds  are  sympathetic,  and  ordinary 
means  of  communication  are  impossible.  To  explain 
this  mental  phenomenon,  however,  is  work  for  the 
metaphysician.  We  can  only  say  that  Lady  Hyde- 
Bassett  understood  Miss  Bellarmine  so  perfectly,  that 
she  lost  her  appetite  for  breakfast. 

"  Could  not  some  one  be  sent  to  her  room  to 
inquire  ?  "  said  Wrath,  rising  from  his  seat,  and 
oblivious  alike  of  manners,  his  two  companions,  and 
general  facts.  Thought  was  swallowed  up  in  sensa- 
tion, and  he  recognized  the  sensation  as  fear. 

"  I  will  go,"  said  Eliza. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said ;  "  you  are  very  good. 
Thank  you." 

When  she  had  gone  out  ot  the  room,  he  turned  to 


A  Study  in  'Temptations.  343 

Lady  Hyde-Bassett.  "  Margaret,"  he  said,  "  do  you 
think  I  have  been  blind  this  last  fortnight  ?  Do  you 
think  I  have  seen  nothing  ?  " 

"  Seen — nothing  ?  "  she  repeated;  "how  ? — what?" 
"  Do  not  act,"  he  said  ;  "  be  a  woman — be  honest. 
You  have  seen  all  that  I  have  seen — perhaps  more." 

"  No  !  no  !  not  more  ...  it  was  all  very  innocent 
...  a  childish  flirtation.  ...  I  thought  it  best  to 
ignore  it.  ...  I  would  not  allow  myself  to  give  it 
consideration." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  what  I  thought.  .  .  .  The  question 
is — Was  I  wrong  ?  Should  I  have  spoken  ?  " 

"  No,  no.     You  were   right   to   trust  her.     The 
dreadful  things  we  are  both  fearing  are  an  insult — an 
injustice.     Mauden  is  the  soul  of  honour.     Sophia  is 
light-hearted,  but — trust  her.     Only  trust  her  !  " 
"  I  do  ...  but  .  .  .  where  is  she  now  ?  " 
"  Do  not  ask  me  !     Do  not  ask  yourself !  " 
"  Is  she  with  Mauden  ?  " 
"No  !  no  !  no  !  how  can  you  say  it  ?  " 
"  Why  not  ask  me  how  I  can  say  it — and  live  ?  " 
She  took  his  hand.     "  Tom,"  she  said,  "  I  would 
swear  that  she  was  innocent  even  if  she  told  me  with 

her  own  lips " 

"  Innocent !  "  he  said,  angrily.  "Am  I  so  vile 
already  ?  I  want  no  man  or  woman  to  assure  me  of 
my  wife's  innocence.  You  know,"  he  went  on,  after 
a  painful  pause,  "  I  am  naturally  jealous.  I — I  try  to 
conquer  this.  ...  I  am  so  many  years  older  than  she 
is,  and  she  is  so  ...  there  is  every  reason  why  I 
must  love  her,  and  there  are  none  why  she  should 
care  for  me  ...  it  would  be  absurd  to  expect  her  to 
sit  gazing  at  me  all  day — me,  bald,  dull,  plodding. 


344  -d-  Study  in  'Temptations. 

.  .  .  Mauden  is  her  own  age,  and  amusing.  ...  It 
was  a  crime  to  marry  her  :  she  was  a  child.  She 
knew  nothing  about  love.  She  has  no  idea  how  much 
she  is  to  me.  I  could  not  tell  her,  it  would  frighten 
her  .  .  .  the  responsibility " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Lady  Hyde-Bassett,  "  why  did  you  not 
speak  out  and  risk  the  frightening  ?  " 

"  I  was  selfish,"  he  went  on,  not  hearing,  "  and 
thought  only  of  my  own  happiness.  And  I  persuaded 

her Don't  you  understand  how  I  must  hate 

myself  ?  Innocent  !  She  is  only  too  innocent.  It 
is  I  who  am  guilty  !  " 

"  I  wish,"  said  Lady  Hyde-Bassett — "  I  wish  Eliza 
would  make  haste." 

"  She  will  not  come  back,"  said  Wrath,  "  because 
she  has  found  the  room  empty,  and  because  she,  too, 
thinks " 

Then  he  left  her.  And  Margaret  could  only  sit 
with  her  hands  clasped,  trying  her  best  not  to 
think.  For  thinking  was  not  to  be  trusted  at  that 
moment.  Faith — "  the  substance  of  things  hoped 
for,  the  evidence  of  things  not  seen  " — was  her  only 
refuge.  For  there  is  no  virtue  so  sublime  that  it 
cannot  be  used  with  advantage  even  in  a  comedy 
situation. 

When  the  grocer  stopped  his  horse  at  the  main 
entrance  to  The  Cloisters,  Sophia  got  down,  gave 
the  man  a  tip,  and  lurked  under  a  tree  until  he  had 
driven  out  of  sight.  Then  she  went  out  into  the 
road  again,  and  walked  to  a  certain  side-door  which 
was  cut  in  the  wall  of  the  kitchen-garden,  and  which 
was  rarely  used  except  by  the  servants  and  the  men 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  345 

employed  on  the  estate.  She  opened  this  door  and 
found  herself  face  to  face  with  the  head-gardener. 

"  How  unlucky  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  had  just 
come  in  to  steal  some  strawberries.  Please  don't  give 
me  any  of  them,  because  that  would  not  be  the  same 
thing  !  "  And,  laughing  gaily,  she  sauntered  up  the 
path.  The  gardener  stroked  his  beard  and  stared  after 
her.  Had  not  his  wife  kept  him  awake  the  whole  of 
the  preceding  night,  with  her  "  firm  beliefs "  and 
" dying  breaths"  on  the  subject  of  Miss  Sophia  Jenyns  ? 
And  now  she  was  hankering  after  strawberries.  He 
whistled. 

Sophia,  meanwhile,  went  on  her  way,  rejoicing 
that  she  had  been  able  to  make  such  a  plausible 
excuse  for  entering  the  grounds  by  a  back-door.  She 
hugged  the  elusive  hope  that  Wrath  had  not  yet  seen 
her  nonsensical  letter,  and  she  was  now  wondering 
how  she  could  get  round  to  the  studio,  where, 
perhaps,  if  the  Fates  were  kind,  she  would  find  the 
envelope  with  its  seal  unbroken.  She  glanced  at  the 
big  clock  which  smiled  from  the  archway  of  the 
stable-yard  :  it  was  exactly  nine.  They  would  all  be 
at  the  breakfast-table  :  she  could  cross  the  lawn  with- 
out the  smallest  risk  of  meeting  either  Wrath,  or 
Margaret,  or  Eliza  Bellarmine.  Sophia  caught  up  her 
skirt  and  ran.  Once  started,  she  did  not  seem  able 
to  stop ;  she  had  only  a  frantic  notion  that  she  was 
chasing  her  own  head.  The  chase  ended,  however, 
when  she  reached  the  studio  window.  Her  limbs 
grew  heavy  and  her  sight  dim  j  she  stumbled  over 
the  threshold,  and  groped  her  way  to  the  mantel- 
piece. The  letter  was  gone.  She  tore  ofF  her  veil 
and  stared  helplessly  about  the  room.  Then  some,-. 


346  A  Study  in  ^Temptations. 

thing  made  her  look  under  the  clock.  It  was  there, 
after  all.  She  thrust  the  hateful  thing  into  her  pocket, 
and  fell. 

Wrath  found  her  senseless  on  the  floor  when  he 
entered  the  studio  a  few  moments  later. 


XVII. 

IN  WHICH   A  YOUNG  GENTLEMAN  OWNS    HIS 
UNWORTHINESS. 

THE  Dowager  Countess  of  Warbeck  was  confined  to 
her  bed  for  some  days  after  the  unhappy  disagreement 
with  her  grandson.  Sir  Claretie  Mull  did  not,  how- 
ever, find  in  her  symptoms  any  grave  cause  for  alarm, 
and  he  told  the  young  Earl  as  much,  adding,  that  if 
he  thought  of  leaving  England,  there  was  no  earthly 
reason  why  he  should  not  do  so.  His  lordship,  there- 
fore, wrote  the  Dowager  an  affectionate  adieu,  ex- 
pressing his  regret  that  she  would  not  see  him,  and 
assuring  her  of  his  unalterable  love.  With  kindest 
regards  to  his  cousin,  Lady  Jane,  he  remained  ever  her 
devoted  grandson,  Warbeck. 

"Never  mention  his  name  in  my  presence,"  said 
the  Countess  to  Jane,  after  she  had  read  this  ;  "  when 
he  repents  of  his  impious  conduct,  I  will  forgive  him. 
But  until  then  my  only  course  is  to  forget." 

On  the  following  Monday,  she  was  still  weak,  but 
able  to  lie  on  the  sofa.  Jane  was  reading  aloud  to 
her  when  a  visitor  was  announced  in  the  person  of 
"Mr.  Mauden."  He  had  asked  to  see  Lady  Jane 
Shannon. 

"  You  cannot  see  him  to-day,"  said  the  Countess, 
sharply  ;  "  it  would  be  most  improper.  Tell  him  to 
come  when  I  am  strong  enough  to  receive  visitors." 


348  ^  Study  in  Temptations. 

"I  am  afraid  I  must  see  him,  dear  grandmama," 
said  Jane,  with  a  fine  blush,  "  whether  it  is  proper  or 
not." 

"  What  ?  "  said  the  Dowager.  "  A  little  louder,  my 
love.  This  attack  has  afFected  my  hearing."  And 
her  blue  eyes  looked  black. 

"  I  said,"  repeated  Jane,  without  flinching,  "  I  am 
afraid  I  must  see  Mr.  Mauden  whether  it  is  proper  or 
improper.  He  is  a  very  old  friend." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  her  ladyship — "  oh  !  I  remember  now 
who  he  is.  The  farmer  person  who  is  going  to  be  a 
schoolmaster.  See  the  good  creature,  by  all  means  !  " 

The  Countess  was  always  most  triumphant  when 
she  was  most  defeated. 

As  Jane  ran  downstairs  to  the  drawing-room  she 
lost  a  little  of  her  colour,  but  when  she  opened  the 
door,  and  saw  De  Boys  actually  standing  on  the 
hearthrug,  she  grew  quite  white.  He,  on  his  part, 
blushed  as  he  came  forward  to  meet  her. 

She  gave  him  her  right  hand  and  he  took  the  other. 
Thus  he  held  them  both,  nor  did  he  seem  anxious  to 
release  either. 

"Jane,"  he  said,  "why  have  you  got  this  beastly 
money  ?  and  why  are  you  living  at  this  awful  Queen's 
Gate  ?  and — why  have  you  forgotten  me  ?  " 

«  I  haven't  ?  " 

"  But  you  have.  Here  is  your  last  letter — all  about 
the  South  Kensington  Museum  and  Greek  vases.  I 
don't  want  to  hear  about  Greek  vases  ;  I  want  to  hear 
about  you.  Dear,  dear,  dearest,  why  have  you  got  so 
cultured  ?  why  do  you  quote  Browning  ?  why  do  you 
write  about  ideals  and  all  such  tiresome  rubbish  ? 
I  would  not  give  your  old  letters  about  the  guinea-pig 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  349 

for  the  whole  of  Tennyson  !  And  you  have  got  your 
hair  done  differently.  Let  me  see  whether  I  like  it  ? 
Yes,  I  do.  Are  the  sleeves  meant  to  look  like  a 
bishop's  ?  Jane,  may  I  kiss  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Jane. 

Perhaps  he  did  not  hear.  At  all  events,  it  made  no 
difference.  And,  indeed,  she  did  not  seem  to  think 
that  it  would.  His  kisses  were  becoming  (from  his 
own  point  of  view)  agreeably  indefinite  when  she 
asked  a  question.  This  was  the  question — 

"  Did  you  leave  The  Cloisters  very  early  this 
morning  ?  " 

"  Shall  we  sit  over  there  by  that  green  dragon  ?  "  he 
suggested,  gravely. 

He  chose  a  chair  with  its  back  to  the  light.  Jane 
sat  opposite  with  the  sun  shining  in  on  her  face. 
This,  he  felt,  was  as  it  should  be.  He  did  not  like  to 
see  women  afraid  of  the  sun. 

"  I  left  The  Cloisters  this  morning,"  he  said,  "and 
I  return  to  Oxford  this  afternoon." 

She  checked  a  sigh  ;  she  certainly  could  not  expect 
him  to  waste  his  time  with  her. 

"  Do  you  like  Lady  Hyde-Bassett  ?  "  she  said,  trying 
to  look  cheerful. 

"  Very  much,"  said  De  Boys  j  "  she  is  charming. 
But  she  is  whim-ish,  of  course,  like  most  women." 

"  And  that  Miss  Belkrmine  you  mentioned  in  your 
last  letter  ?  " 

"She  has  a  fine  figure,  but  she  jaws  too  much. 
No  one  can  get  a  word  in,  when  she  takes  up  an 
argument.  I  cannot  bear  these  blue-stockings  my- 
self. Fielding's  Amelia  is,  in  my  mind,  the  highest 
type  of  woman  !  " 


350  -A  Study  in  Temptations. 

"  You  used  to  say  she  was  insipid." 

"  Ah,  that  was  a  schoolboy's  verdict." 

"And  what  about  that  Miss  Sophia  Jenyns  you 
mentioned  in  your  first  letter  ?  She  must  have  been 
the  most  interesting  of  them  all." 

"  Yes,  I  think  one  would  call  her  interesting.  In 
the  beginning  she  reminded  me — in  a  very  faint  degree 
— of  you.  But  you  have  really  nothing  in  common." 

"  I  suppose  she  is  very  beautiful  ?  "  she  sighed. 
"  Grandmama  says  she  is  the  loveliest  actress  in 
Europe." 

"  She  is  lovely — for  an  actress,"  he  said  j  "  there  is 
a  glamour  about  her  which  some  people  might  find 
very  attractive.  ...  But  I  have  nothing  to  say  against 
her.  She  is  rather  uncertain  in  temper :  not  a  woman 
one  could  depend  on.  She  has  no  feeling.  And  what 
is  a  woman — no  matter  how  pretty  she  may  be — 
unless  she  has  feeling  ?  I  would  call  Miss  Jenyns  an 
egoist  j  very  fascinating,  but  for  all  that,  an  egoist. 
And  egoism  is,  I  think,  the  eighth  deadly  sin.  It  is 
the  special  sin  of  this  century.  But,  Jane,  don't  let 
us  talk  of  -Isms  and  -Ivities.  I  am  sick  of  them, 
dearest.  One  heard  of  nothing  else  at  The  Cloisters. 
An  enervating  atmosphere  !  If  I  had  been  there 
another  week  I  should  have  lost  all  ambition.  I  feel 
as  though  I  had  stepped  from  a  window  conservatory 
into  the  fresh  woods.  In  God's  name,  let  us  be 
natural ;  let  us  drop  jargon  j  let  us  only  remember 
that  we  love  each  other — for  nothing  else  matters." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  won't  get  tired  of  me  ?  I  am 
not  clever  and  intellectual.  I  understand  you,  dear, 
but  I  cannot  answer  properly.  It — it  is  horrid  to  feel 
so  ignorant  when  you  find  yourself  talking  to — to 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  351 

some  one  who  is  accustomed  to  meet  geniuses,  and 
men — and  women — who  can  say  something  about 
everything,  and  just  in  the  right  way.  Now  I 
suppose  if  I  tried  I  could  say  something,  too,  but  it 
wouldn't  sound  a  bit  like  the  conversation  in  novels. 
I  always  think  in  such  short  words  !  " 

"  The  perfection  of  literary  style — or  of  conversa- 
tional style — is  to  be  simple,"  said  De  Boys — "  sim- 
plicity is  delicious,  and  lamentably  rare.  I  should 
hate  a  wife  who  could  turn  me  into  an  epigram." 

"  A  wife  !  "  she  murmured. 

"  Dearest,  you  are  the  only  woman  in  my  world. 
The  rest  are  your  reflection  j  when  I  see  any  beauty 
or  charm  in  a  woman  it  is  because  she  reminds  me  of 
you." 

Jane  blushed.  "I  think  I  can  understand  that," 
she  said,  "  because,  after  you  had  left  Brentmore,  I 
used  to  talk  to  Henry  Burkett — the  one  who  sings  in 
the  choir — and — and  sometimes  I  used  to  forget,  and 
think  he  was  you.  But  I  soon  found  the  difference. 
You  are  not  angry  with  me  ?  " 

"  Burkett  is  such  a  smug  !  " 

"But  I  missed  you  so  terribly  !  And  I  never 
looked  at  him  when  I  could  help  it.  When  I  did 
look  I  used  to  half-close  my  eyes.  That  made  him 
more  indistinct." 

"  Still,  I  do  not  care  to  think  that  you  have  flirted 
with  men.  If  any  one  else  had  told  me " 

"  It  wasn't  flirting,  De  Boys.  We  only  talked 
about  books,  and  poetry,  and  religion,  and  things  like 
that.  I  hope  you  don't  think " 

"I  am  quite  sure,  dearest,  that  your  intentions  in 
the  matter  were  beyond  reproach.  At  the  same 


352  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

time,  religion  is  rather  an  intimate  subject ;  I  mean, 
it  covers  everything  or  anything.  If  you  begin  a 
conversation  on  religion  there  is  no  saying  how  it  will 
end.  It  would  entirely  depend  on  the  view  you 
happened  to  take.  For  this  reason,  it  is  not  a  subject 
for  a  young  girl  to  discuss  with  strange  men  ;  nor, 
in  fact,  with  any  man  except  her  husband — or  some 
clergyman  of  whom  he  approved." 

"A  girl  must  say  something,"  said  Jane,  whose 
meekness  had  its  limit ;  "  what  did  Miss  Jenyns  talk 
about  ?  She  is  only  two  years  older  than  I  am." 

"  Miss  Jenyns,"  said  Mauden,  "  is  a  woman  of  the 
world.  Some  day  I  will  tell  you  more  about  her. 
But  now  I  want  to  hear  about  you.  I  must  leave  in 
half  an  hour." 

"  So  soon  ?  "  said  Jane.  <c  I  wish  you  had  told  me 
you  were  coming.  I  should  have  had  so  much  happi- 
ness watching  for  you." 

a  I — I  came  here  on  impulse,  my  dearest.  I — I — 
did  not  know  myself  that  I  was  coming  to  see  you 
when  I  left  The  Cloisters  this  morning.  But  when 
I  reached  London,  I  found  I  could  not  leave  it  until  I 
had "  He  stopped  short,  struggled  with  his  con- 
science, and  then  blurted  out — "Jane,  I  want  you  to 
forgive  me  for  something." 

"  Forgive  you  ?  "  she  said,  "  what  have  you  done  ?  " 
and  she  kissed  his  hand. 

a  I  am  the  meanest  beast  that  walks,"  said  her  hero, 
blushing  to  his  finger-tips — "  I  am,  indeed.  I  do  not 

deserve M  She  smiled  into  his  *ace  with  angelic 

disbelief.  <£I  do  not  deserve  you,*  he  said,  "and  I 
have  always  known  it."  He  sigiied — "I  am  afraid 
we  cannot  marry  for  a.  year  or  two  ? " 


A  Study  in  'Temptations  353 

"  Not  for  ages  !  " 

"  And  then,  there  is  your  money  !  " 

"  I  can  give  most  of  it  to  the  poor  rektions.  It 
will  soon  go  that  way.  They  want  ever  so  many 
more  things  than  I  do  !  But  you  will  be  rich,  too, 
when  you  are  a  Professor  and  write  learned  books. 
Or,  if  you  are  not  exactly  rich,  you  will  be  famous — 
which  is  much  better." 

"  You  have  always  believed  in  me.  But  if  I 
fail " 

"  You  would  never  fail ;  you  might  be  unfor- 
tunate. But  then  I  could  only  love  you  more  than 
ever." 

"  Write  to  me  every  day,  dearest,  and  tell  me 
that." 

"  How  much  do  you  love  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  solemnly  ;  "  and  that  has 
been  the  cause  of  all  my  trouble." 

«  What  trouble  ?" 

"  The  trouble  I  want  you  to  forgive." 

She  put  her  arms  round  his  neck.  "  Didn't  you 
say,"  she  said,  "  that  nothing  mattered  so  long  as  we 
loved  each  other  ?  " 

"  It  would  never  have  happened,"  he  stammered, 
"  if  she  had  not  been  so  much  like  you." 

"  I  know  all  about  it,"  she  said  ;  "  don't  tell  me  any 
more — unless  you  like." 

"  But — how  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  saw  it  in  your  face — when  I  came  in." 

"  I  shall  never  understand  women  !  "  exclaimed  De 
Boys. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said,  "  we  are  rather  difficult." 

"  I  never  told  her,"  he  murmured,  "  that  I  loved 
24 


354  ^  Study  in  Temptations. 

her.  It — it  was  only  sympathy.  .  .  .  And,  Jane — 
never  write  me  cold  letters  again." 

"  Do  you  think  I  could — after  this  ?  "  said  his 
affianced. 

And  so,  I  think,  we  may  leave  them. 


XVIII. 

IN   WHICH   SOPHIA    WAKES    UP. 

MANY  hours  of  pain  and  several  weeks  of  dangerous 
illness  were  the  result  of  Sophia's  bite  at  the  Ideal — a 
result  which  must  not  surprise  us,  since  the  psycho- 
logical mystery  she  tasted  is,  as  all  pious  souls  know, 
the  modern  development  of  the  antediluvian  apple. 
But  Sophia  was  young  and  had  much  to  live  for — 
much,  too,  to  atone  for.  Tears  had  washed  the  dust 
from  her  eyes  as  only  tears  can,  and,  as  she  wept  over 
her  own  folly,  she  knew  that  she  was  really  crying  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life.  Crystal  drops  shed  over  our 
own  excellence  are  nothing  in  the  world.  They  may, 
however,  have  their  use  in  the  city  that  is  paved  with 
good  intentions. 

Wrath  watched  day  and  night  by  the  bedside  of  his 
wife.  Their  relationship  was  no  longer  concealed,  for 
Nature,  who  hates  false  appearances,  and  is,  in  fact,  a 
very  blab  to  those  who  have  ears  to  hear,  had  made 
straightforwardness  necessary.  And  Wrath,  in  spite 
of  his  anxiety,  was  happier  than  he  had  been,  even  at 
his  happiest  moments,  since  the  day  of  the  secret 
marriage.  He  held  his  breath  at  the  shortness  of  time 
before  him  in  which  to  retrieve  the  two  past  years  of 
dissimulation,  of  double-facedness.  As  all  penitents, 
he  longed  to  be  born  again,  that  he  might  wage  a  new 
life  with  the  arts  of  an  old  experience.  He  blamed 

355 


356  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

himself  less  for  keeping  his  promise  to  Sophia  than  for 
making  it.  The  weakness,  the  moral  cowardice  of 
the  matter  lay,  in  his  judgment,  in  the  submitting  to 
such  a  condition.  It  brought  him  no  ease  of  mind  to 
remember  that  the  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet 
were  admitted  by  a  charitable  world  to  be  more  or  less 
irresponsible  for  their  follies.  With  all  his  faults  he 
was  not  a  man  to  lie  pleasantly  to  his  own  conscience. 
He  had  acted  wrongly,  and  he  knew  it ;  what  was 
more,  he  had  been  perfectly  aware  that  he  was  acting 
wrongly  when  he  gave  the  miserable  promise.  He 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  marry  Sophia,  and  he  had 
not  been  willing  to  run  any  risk  of  losing  her.  There 
was  no  condition  so  unwise,  so  ill-considered,  or  so 
desperate  but  he  would  have  accepted  it,  rather  than 
forfeit  even  one  of  her  smiles.  Such  was  the  truth. 
(If  a  man  cannot  be  a  hero  to  his  hired  valet,  we 
must  not  wonder  if  he  looks  small  in  the  presence  of 
his  free  conscience.)  Fear,  for  the  enormities  he 
might  have  committed,  was  the  other  side  of  his 
remorse  for  the  wrong,  he  had  actually  done.  It  was 
an  awkward  subject  viewed  from  any  point  of  con- 
sideration. But  awkward  as  it  was,  it  was  even 
grateful  in  comparison  with  another  matter,  which 
haunted  him  constantly,  and  which  seemed  past  for- 
giveness or  hope.  This  matter  was  his  conversation 
with  Lady  Hyde-Bassett  on  that  never-to-be-forgotten 
Monday  morning.  It  was  contemptible  enough,  God 
knew,  to  have  suspected  his  saintly  wife  of  having 
eloped  with  Mauden  j  but  to  have  expressed  the 
despicable  thought  in  words,  to  have  allowed  the 
curbed  jealousy  of  a  lifetime  to  break  away  from  all 
bounds  just  when  control  was  most  necessary — what 


A  Study  in  temptations.  357 

could  he  call  himself?  To  think  of  all  this  in  the 
long  hours  of  the  night,  when  Sophia  was  lying  half- 
unconscious,  or  in  pain,  was  a  terrible  punishment  for 
his  injustice,  but  he  would  not  own  that  it  was  terrible 
enough. 

One  afternoon  Sophia  woke  up  from  a  sleep  and 
found  Wrath  watching  her.  It  was  a  daily  experience, 
but  on  that  particular  afternoon  she  seemed  to  see  him 
more  distinctly  than  usual.  He  was  looking  old  and 
careworn,  and  was  so  changed,  that  she  found  herself 
wondering  whether  she  had  not  lost  all  idea  of  time, 
and  whether  her  illness  had  lasted — not  a  few  weeks 
as  she  imagined — but  many  years.  She  asked  Wrath 
for  a  hand-glass, — she  thought  her  hair  must  be  grey. 

He  gave  it  to  her  in  silence.  She  looked  from  the 
mirror  to  her  husband,  and  from  her  husband  to  the 
mirror.  Her  face  had  not  suffered  so-  much  from 
illness  as  his,  from  anxiety.  She  was  pale  in  the 
cheeks,  and  a  little  dark  round  the  eyes,  but  otherwise 
she  seemed  even  younger  for  her  suffering.  She 
might  have  been  a  girl  in  her  first  teens. 

"  Tom,"  she  said,  "  are  you  very  tired  ?  " 

«  Tired  ?     Oh,  no." 

"  Then  talk  to  me.  Tell  me  what  you  are  thinking 
about." 

"  I  am  thinking  of  you,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"  Don't  think  about  me — I  am  horrid." 

This  was  quite  in  her  old  manner,  and  for  a  moment 
he  smiled.  It  was  a  long-established  custom  between 
them,  that  she  should  call  herself  names,  while  he 
expressed  his  horror  at  the  blasphemy.  It  was  the 
usual  prelude  to  most  of  their  conversations. 


358  A  Study  in  temptations. 

a  But  I  really  mean  it  to-day,"  she  said.  This 
guileless  and  unconscious  admission  of  the  usual 
insincerity  of  her  self-depreciation  made  them  both 
laugh.  It  was  Sophia's  saving  grace  that  she  could, 
at  times,  survey  herself  from  a  distance.  When  she 
was  not  the  first,  she  would  at  least  be  the  second,  to 
mock  at  her  own  extravagancies.  But  it  may  be  that 
she  carried  this  self-ridicule  to  excess,  and  saw  her 
actions  in  a  ludicrous  light  when  they  were  rather 
sad  than  funny.  Thus  she  had  gradually  lost  all 
belief  in  her  own  earnestness.  Sometimes  it  seemed 
that  her  love  for  Wrath  was  a  jest,  that  life  and  death 
were  alike  jests,  that  the  world  itself  was  the  Creator's 
big  joke  with  mankind.  Everything  was  so  grotesque, 
so  badly  rehearsed.  The  curtain  went  up  too  soon  and 
came  down  too  late  ;  parts  were  mumbled,  or  shouted, 
or  gabbled,  or  left  unspoken  ;  cues  were  disregarded  ; 
heroes  were  knock-kneed,  and  heroines  had  thick 
ankles  ;  fools  made  mirth  with  such  a  solemn  air,  and 
the  wise  were  solemn  so  foolishly  j  men  and  women 
seemed  not  themselves,  but  their  caricatures  j  it  was 
all  wildly  comic,  farcical,  unnatural,  and  inartistic. 
The  only  sad  part  was,  that  one  ached  from  laughing 
till  one  cried  at  the  pain.  But  this,  too,  was  a 
joke. 

There  was  something  inhuman,  almost  cruel,  in 
Sophia's  humour  which  made  Wrath  unhappy — all 
but  fearful.  Men,  moreover,  do  not  like  their  wives 
to  have  too  clear  a  perception  of  the  ludicrous — it  is 
a  masculine  theory  that  laughter  must  be  on  the  male 
side  only.  A  man  knows  when  laughter  is  a  spoil- 
sport j  he  can  postpone  it  when  necessary.  But  a 
woman  will  laugh — if  she  know  how — at  the  right 


A  Study  in  T'emptations.  359 

moment  or  the  wrong,  usually,  too,  when  a  man  would 
prefer  to  see  her  demure. 

Although  Wrath  joined  in  his  wife's  merriment  on 
this  particular  afternoon,  it  did  not  seem  to  him  that 
the  occasion  was  especially  amusing. 

"  Things  are  still  so  ridiculous,"  she  said,  suddenly, 
"  but  they  are  not  ridiculous  in  quite  the  same  way  as 
they  used  to  be.  When  I  laugh  now,  I  do  not  feel 
so  much  like  crying.  I  know  that  what  looks  so 
absurd  at  present,  will  one  day  be  very  grand  and 
beautiful.  Some  kinds  of  knowledge  you  cannot  study 
— you  find  them  when  you  are  looking  for  something 
else.  I  have  learnt  all  this  by  accident.  I  cannot  tell 
you  how.  But  I  have  learnt  it  so  well  that  I  can 
never  forget  it.  ...  I  shall  never  again  be  so  foolish 
— so  obstinate  as  I  was.  You  will  see  such  a  difference 
in  me  !  And,  Tom — I  want  to  tell  you  about  my 
walk — that  morning." 

"  No,  no !  "  he  said  ;  "  let  me  tell  you  something 
first.  Will  you  ever  forgive  me  ?  I — I  thought  you 
were  with  Mauden  !  " 

The  clock  had  never  ticked  so  loudly  :  Sophia  could 
hear  nothing  else.  Or  was  it  her  own  heart  ? 

"I  thought  you  were  with  Mauden,"  he  repeated. 
"  I  thought  you  had  gone  to  London  with  him.  I — I 
was  brutally  jealous " 

"Tom!" 

"I  knew  it  was  infamous.  Do  you  think  I  will 
ever  forgive  myself?  " 

"  But,  Tom "  What  would  he  say  if  he  knew 

the  whole  truth  ?  She  could  atone  for  her  folly  none 
the  less  because  he  knew  nothing  about  it.  Besides, 
he  would  lose  all  respect  for  her  if  she  told  him.  He 


360  A  Study  in  ^Temptations. 

would  despise  her :  perhaps  his  love  would  change  to 
dislike.  Men,  even  the  best,  were  not  so  forgiving  as 
women. 

"  Tom,"  she  said,  desperately,  "  you — you  were 
quite  right.  I  .was  with  Mauden — I  was  going  to 
London  with  him,  but — but  I  changed  my  mind  ! 
It  was  all  a  mistake.  I  thought — you  were  tired  of 
me !  " 

She  trembled  for  his  answer.  He  had  grown  so 
pale  ;  he  looked  so  stern. 

"  You  were  going  to  London  with  Mauden  ?  "  he 
said. 

"Yes." 

"  Why  did  you  change  your  mind  ?  " 

"  Because — I  remembered  you." 

"  You  remembered  me !  That  was  thoughtful." 
He  drew  his  hand  across  his  brow  and  bowed  his  head. 
We  have  surely  never  such  need  to  show  humiliation 
as  when  we  are  in  the  presence  of  a  fallen  idol. 

It  is  not  the  god,  which  was  no  god,  that  suffers, 
but  its  former  worshipper,  who  sees  what  appeared 
divinity,  corruption,  and  what  looked  strength,  rotten- 
ness. And,  in  at  least  some  slight  degree,  this  terrible 
contemplation  must  be  made  by  all  mortals  who  place 
their  entire  faith  in  mere  flesh-and-blood  :  who  love 
the  creature,  which  has  beauty  that  we  may  desire  it, 
more  than  the  Creator  whom  no  man  hath  at  any 
time  seen.  One  who  wrote  of  human  affection  with 
a  tenderness  and  understanding  past  comparison — who 
knew  its  infinite  power  and  no  less  infinite  weakness 
— one  who  has  taught  that  by  loving  man  we  best 
learn  how  to  love  his  Maker,  has  also  warned  us — i 
"  Keep  yourselves  from  idols." 


A  Study  in  Temptations.  361 

Wrath,  in  his  hour  of  disillusion,  had  no  words  :  the 
tragedy  in  common  life  lies  in  the  thinking — not  in  the 
speaking. 

The  sound  at  last  reached  him  of  a  woman,  crying ; 
he  looked,  and  though  he  no  longer  beheld  a  heavenly 
spirit,  infallible  and  sinless,  he  beheld  his  wife. 

"You  forget — the  circumstances,"  sobbed  Sophia. 
"  I  was  not  well.  And  think  how  ill  I  have  been  !  " 

His  frown  vanished,  but  it  left  its  scar.  "My 
dearest,"  he  said,  gently,  "  whatever  has  happened,  I 
know  it  has  all  been  my  fault !  My  fault  entirely ! 
I  shall  never  cease  to  reproach  myself." 

"Let  me  tell  you  all  about  it,"  said  Sophia;  and 
then  between  laughter  and  tears  she  confessed  the 
whole  story.  "  Poor  young  Mauden  is  not  to  blame," 
she  wound  up,  "  because  he  did  not  know  I  was  mar- 
ried ! " 

"  My  fault  entirely  !  "  repeated  Wrath.  And  what 
a  relief  it  was  to  shift  all  her  burden  on  his  own 
shoulders  !  He  was  the  transgressor — the  brute  beast 
with  no  understanding — she  was  still  his  angel  of 
light. 

"  You  are  so  good  to  me,"  she  whimpered,  "  but  I 
will  never  be  so  wicked  again." 

"  There  shall  be  no  more  of  these  detestable  circum- 
stances," he  said. 

"  I  don't  mind  them  so  much,  if  I  know  what  they 
mean,"  said  Sophia,  "  and  next  time,  of  course,  I  shall 
know !  Some  day  I  want  to  have  a  son,  and  I  want 
him  to  be  just  like  you  !  " 

"  It  is  impossible  to  look  into  the  future,"  said 
Wrath;  "but  if — by  any  chance — we  had  a  son,  I 
think  he  would  be  rather  remarkable." 


362  A  Study  In  Temptations. 

•'  He  would  be  a  genius,"  said  Sophia. 

"  But  he  must  have  your  face,"  said  Wrath. 

"  No,"  said  Sophia,  "  if  he  is  not  exactly  like  you,  I 
shall  be  disappointed." 

"  I  think,"  said  Wrath,  "  we  must  make  him  a  law- 
yer. He  might  become  Lord  Chancellor." 

"Or  he  might  be  a  Cardinal.  Wouldn't  that  be 
nicer  ? " 

At  which  moment,  Lady  Hyde-Bassett  came  in  with 
some  flowers  for  the  invalid. 

"  Margaret,"  said  Sophia,  "  if  you  had  a  son,  would 
you  rather  see  him  a  Cardinal  or  a  Lord  Chancellor  ? 
Because  we  were  just  saying " 

Wrath  strode  away  to  the  window.  And  looking 
out,  he  saw  a  fair  world.  How  wrong  it  was  to  be 
cynical !  As  if  there  was  no  such  thing  as  earthly 
happiness.  Away  !  away  !  ye  philosophers  of  the  mud- 
heap.  The  soul  of  man  is  a  garden  where,  as  he  sows, 
so  he  shall  reap.  If  ye  would  gather  roses,  do  not  sow 
rotten  seeds.  Away !  away  ! 


EPILOGUE. 

WHEN  Lady  Jane  Shannon  attained  her  one-and- 
twentieth  year  she  married  the  brilliant  young  scholar 
De  Boys  Mauden  who,  at  present,  is  editing  Plato  as 
he  has  never  been  edited  before,  and  never  will  be, 
again.  As  this  magnificent  enterprise  will  occupy 
some  nine  hours  each  day  for  the  next  thirty  years  of 
his  life,  we  may  safely  assume  that  much  fame  will  ac- 
crue to  his  literary  executors. 

The  Earl  of  Warbeck  astonished  society  by  becoming 
first  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  then  a  priest.  This  did 
not  kill  his  grandmother,  as  many  people  feared  it 
might,  but  she  lived  many  years  to  enjoy  the  pleasure 
of  writing  wills  in  his  favour,  and  revoking  them  at 
the  rate  of  three  a  month.  He  also  dined  with  her 
frequently,  because,  as  she  told  her  friends,  she  would 
never  despair  of  converting  him  back  to  Christianity 
and  the  usual  number  of  commandments. 

Farmer  Battle  and  Miss  Caroline  Battle  are  still 
living,  and  rank  next  in  Jane's  heart  after  De  Boys 
and  a  certain  small  edition  of  De  Boys.  This  young 
gentleman  already  holds  a  decided  opinion  on  the  due 
subjection  of  women  to  their  lords :  an  opinion  which 
Jane  has  her  own  method  of  refuting — a  method  so 
subtle,  however,  that  Mauden  has  never  yet  been  able 
to  perceive  it.  He  is  only  conscious  that  his  wife's 
will  looks  so  much  like  his  own,  that  he  is  never  able 
to  tell  which  is  which.  He,  at  all  events,  gives  the 

363 


364  A  Study  in  Temptations. 

word  of  command  and  she  always  wears  an  air  of  the 
most  charming  obedience.  Why  analyze  such  an  har- 
monious condition  of  things  ? 

Lady  Hyde-Bassett  lived  long  enough  to  see  her 
dear  Eliza  married  to  Mr.  Claverhouse  Digges,  the 
editor  of  the  Argus.  It  was  the  last  match  Margaret 
made,  and,  as  she  declared,  the  most  satisfactory.  She 
died  very  peacefully — if  rather  suddenly — and  her  last 
words  were,  that  she  had  never  been  so  happy.  It 
was  quite  impossible  to  mourn  over  one  who  showed 
such  relief  at  leaving  this  world,  and  who  enjoyed  such 
a  full  and  perfect  assurance  of  the  next.  Her  great 
wealth  was  left  as  a  bequest  to  be  used  for  the  support 
of  such  scholars,  authors,  and  artists,  who  preferred 
rather  to  do  good  work  for  nothing  than  bad  work  for 
large  fees.  The  bequest  is  now  managed  by  a  com- 
mittee, and  it  has  not  been  of  service  to  those  for 
whom  her  ladyship  intended  it.  But  her  intentions 
were  good,  and  the  starving  scholars,  authors,  and 
artists  who  see  the  prosperous,  incompetent,  and  dis- 
honest making  off  with  their  treasure,  have,  let  us 
hope,  none  the  less  gratitude  for  Lady  Hyde-Bassett's 
benevolent  design. 

Wrath  and  Sophia  have  a  small  daughter,  and  now 
they  wonder  why  they  wanted  a  son.  She  is  such  an 
amazing  and  unique  creation.  They  have  named  her 
"Margaret,"  after  one  they  both  loved — but  Wrath 
especially.  Had  she  not  believed  in  Sophia  when  he 
himself  had  doubted  her  ? 


A  BUNDLE   OF  LIFE 


To 

WALTER  SPINDLER. 

AH,  not  for  me — to  learn  the  truth  by  dreaming, 
To  hear  the  cries  of  earth  in  melody, 
To  know  'tis  night  but  when  the  stars  are  gleaming,- 
Ah,  not  for  me. 

Music  of  form  and  colour's  mystery, 
The  joy  of  fashioning  in  fairest  seeming 
Life's  dullest  clay  and  Winter's  barest  tree  j 

To  count  the  years  as  moments — only  deeming 
That  truly  Time  which  makes  thy  Art  to  thee 
The  one  thing  needful  and  the  all-redeeming,— 
Ah,  not  for  me  I 

September  23, 1893. 


A  Bundle  of  Life. 

PROLOGUE. 
I. 

SIR  SIDNEY  WARCOP  was  a  gentleman  who  had  been 
born  with  many  good  and  perfect  gifts,  but  he  had 
pawned  them  to  his  Adversary  for  a  few  casks  of 
brandy  and  a  little  soda.  In  his  early  manhood  he 
had  been  considered  a  handsome,  dashing  young  buck 
of  the  old  school,  a  three-bottle  hero,  a  sad  dog,  an 
irresistible  rake — a  good-hearted  devil.  Now  he  was 
reformed,  and  reformation  had  meant  in  his  case,  as 
in  that  of  many,  the  substitution  of  many  disagreeable 
virtues  for  a  few  atoning  sins.  Once  over-generous, 
he  was  now  frugal ;  once  fearless,  he  was  now  discreet ; 
once  too  loving,  he  was  now  indifferent;  once  a 
zealot,  he  was  now  unprejudiced  ;  once  candid,  he 
was  now  abyssmal — in  a  phrase,  he  was  the  embodi- 
ment of  gentlemanly  correctness,  well-bred  honour, 
and  polite  religion. 

At  the  age  of  six  and  twenty  he  had  surprised 
society  in  two  ways  :  first,  by  running  away  with  his 
enemy's  wife  ;  and  secondly,  by  marrying  the  lady 
on  the  death,  some  months  later,  of  her  distracted 

25  369 


370  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

husband.  Eighteen  years  had  now  passed  and,  by 
living  in  close  retirement,  Lady  Warcop  was  become 
a  much-sought-after  person.  She  had  suddenly  in- 
herited, too,  a  considerable  fortune,  and  as  views  on 
marriage  are  only  immoral  (as  it  would  seem)  when 
one  cannot  afford  to  pay  for  them,  it  was  not  so  much 
a  question  whether  her  ladyship  would  be  received, 
but  whether  she  would  receive.  And  she  gave  such 
delicious  dinners !  The  early  transgression  of  Sir 
Sidney  and  his  wife  was  forgotten,  and  their  daughter 
(whose  age  was  a  subject  delicately  avoided  by  the 
feeling  and  discreet  world),  was  receiving  her  educa- 
tion in  a  convent  abroad.  It  is  possible  that  she 
would  have  remained  there  always  and  ended  her  life 
as  a  nun,  but  for  the  great  interest  most  unexpectedly 
shown  in  her  welfare  by  a  rich  and  childless  aunt — 
her  mother's  own  sister — Mrs.  Constance  Charlotte 
Portcullis. 

The  heart  of  Mrs.  Portcullis  was,  as  it  were,  a  moral 
scent-sachet,  which  she  refilled  with  the  fashionable 
perfume  of  each  season,  scattering  the  musk  of  the 
old  year  to  make  room  for  the  myrrh  of  the  new. 
This  custom — which  is  commonly  called  Toleration 
— won  for  her  numberless  acquaintances  of  every 
rank  and  opinion,  among  whom  it  would  have  been 
hard  to  decide,  which  expressed  his  or  her  contempt 
for  the  lady's  uncertain  principles,  in  the  most  affec- 
tionate manner.  Mrs.  Portcullis  had,  nevertheless, 
one  fixed  and  unalterable  idea,  and  that  had  reference 
to  Lady  Warcop.  She  held  that  her  appalling  conduct 
had  brought  perpetual  disgrace  on  that  distinguished 
family  the  Tracy  Tottenhams,  of  which  she  and  her 
ladyship  were  members.  Years  passed  and  the  sisters 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  371 

never  met.  Mrs.  Portcullis,  of  Belgrave  Square,  and 
Lady  Warcop,  of  Curzon  Street,  were  a  new  heaven 
and  a  new  earth  asunder. 

They  were  brought  together  at  last  in  a  street 
accident.  Mrs.  Portcullis  was  thrown  out  of  her 
victoria  and  driven  home  half  insensible  in  Lady 
Warcop's  brougham,  which,  by  a  dispensation  of 
Providence  or  the  interference  of  Satan,  happened 
to  be  passing  at  the  time  of  the  catastrophe.  On 
recovery  from  the  shock  Charlotte  felt  constrained 
to  write  to  her  sister  in  pious  and  forbearing  terms — 

"Since  the  Almighty,"  she  wound  up,  "has,  in 
accordance  with  His  inscrutable  Principles,  chosen  a 
weak  and  sinful  agent  for  the  accomplishment  of  His 
all-merciful  design  (the  preservation  of  my  life),  I 
must  accept  this  as  a  sign  that  He  desires  me  to 
unbend  from  my  former  attitude  of  just,  if  reluctant, 
severity.  If  He  has  seen  fit  to  forgive  you  for  the 
disgrace  and  reproach  you  have  brought  on  our  once 
stainless  name,  my  duty  as  a  Christian  forbids  me  to 
make  any  further  comment  on  your  crime.  But  I 
cannot  refrain  from  adding  that  my  unceasing  prayers 
for  your  repentance  have  no  doubt  furthered,  more 
than  it  would  become  me  to  say,  this  miracle  of 
grace.  . 

"  I  will  receive  you  this  day  week  between  two  and 
four. 

"  Your  affectionate  sister, 

"  C.  C.  PORTCULLIS." 

Like  Lady  Lurewell  in  the  comedy,  Mrs.  Portcullis 
could  dress  up  a  sin  so  religiously  that  the  devil  him- 


372  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

self  would  hardly  know  it  of  his  making.  It  is  certain 
that  she  deceived  herself,  and  on  reading  over  the 
foregoing  she  almost  felt  the  prick  of  her  immortal 
wings — which  prick,  as  Plato  tells  us,  is  to  the  soul 
what  the  cutting  of  teeth  is  to  the  infant.  But  Lady 
Warcop's  state  of  mind  on  receiving  the  letter,  and 
her  consequent  remarks  to  the  effect  that  Charlotte 
always  was  a  hypocrite,  a  cat,  and  a  fool,  need  not  be 
insisted  on  here  j  for,  remembering  Charlotte's  wealth 
and  several  other  matters,  she  wrote  her  reply  in  so 
meek  and  quiet  a  spirit  that  the  hasty  utterances  of 
her  unconsidering  tongue  shall  not  be  known  till  the 
last  Judgment.  Although,  as  we  have  said,  Lady 
Warcop  had  gained  for  herself  a  certain  sneaking 
acknowledgment  from  so-called  good  society,  her  own 
sister's  refusal  to  recognize  her  had  always  been  a 
stumbling-block.  There  were  still  many  desirable 
acquaintances  who  would  not  wink  until  Mrs.  Port- 
cullis winked,  and  this  consideration  was  of  such 
moment  to  Blanche,  who  only  lived  now  to  meet 
the  right  people  in  the  right  way,  that,  rather  than 
miss  the  chance  of  reconciliation  with  Charlotte,  she 
would  have  performed  even  a  more  severe  penance 
than  did  Henry  II.  at  the  shrine  of  St.  Thomas  of 
Canterbury.  So  giving  much  incidental  praise  to  the 
Creator,  but  much  more  to  Mrs.  Portcullis,  she  wrote 
to  say  that  she  would  call  at  Belgrave  Square  on  the 
day  and  between  the  hours  named  in  Charlotte's  most 
kind  letter,  and,  begging  her  to  continue  her  fervent 
supplications  to  Heaven,  she  remained  her  devoted,  if 
unworthy,  sister  Blanche.  She  dispkyed  very  correct 
taste,  Charlotte  thought,  in  omitting  the  ill-gotten 
name  of  Warcop. 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  373 


II. 


Lady  Warcop  was  a  woman  of  medium  stature, 
elegant  mould,  and  cautious  smiles.  Deep-set  blue 
eyes  and  a  very  low  brow,  a  nose  inclined  to  the 
Roman,  and  a  telling  mouth  ;  a  smooth,  rather  pale 
complexion  and  innocent  fair  hair  were  the  most 
remarkable  points  of  a  countenance  which  fascinated 
reason  and  looked  reproach  at  distrust.  At  least  seven 
years  younger  than  Sir  Sidney,  and  of  singularly 
youthful  appearance,  she  affected  an  artless  manner 
and  displayed  now  that  childish  merriment  not  seen 
in  children,  and  now  that  rudeness  which  passes  for 
sincerity  and  is  usually  found  in  the  disingenuous.  A 
being  with  many  emotions  but  no  heart,  with  ideas 
but  no  thoughts,  there  was  so  little,  even  in  her  folly, 
to  excite  interest,  that,  in  calling  her  stupid,  friends 
said  their  best  and  enemies  their  worst  of  her  character. 
But  the  strong  force  in  Lady  Warcop  was  her  sex  : 
weak,  untruthful,  cowardly,  and  malicious,  she  was 
still  no  more  than  woman  may  be,  and  it  was  no 
slight  virtue — though  a  negative  one — to  have  kept 
this  feminine  quality,  to  have  retained — after  a  life  of 
sham  passions  and  passionate  shams — that  indefinable 
Eve-like  pathos  which  from  the  beginning  conquered 
— and  until  the  end  will  conquer — the  rigour  of  strict 
criticism. 

Mrs.  Portcullis,  on  the  other  hand,  was  big-boned, 
loud-voiced,  and  mighty,  and   so   aggressive    in   her 
merits  that  she  would  have  been  more  acceptable  and 
pleasant  for  one  of  Lady  Warcop's  cowering  faulft 
Her  high,  white  forehead  and  long  chin  gave  her  a 


374  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

grand  and  monumental  air,  which  her  widow's  cap, 
crape  robes,  and  such-like  paraphernalia  of  woe  made 
the  more  emphatic. 

The  meeting  between  these  two  ladies,  who  had 
hated  each  other  so  long  and  so  cordially,  was  of  the 
most  edifying  and  tender  nature.  Blanche,  who  had 
intended  to  be  dignified  though  pious,  fell  to  miserable 
weeping,  and  Charlotte,  touched  by  what  she  supposed 
was  the  sacrifice  of  a  contrite  heart,  pronounced, 
goddess-like,  a  solemn  benediction  on  Blanche's 
bowed  head.  Lady  Warcop's  tears,  however,  were 
those  of  suppressed  rage  and  spite,  and  Charlotte's 
comfortable  words,  "  I  will  make  no  reference  to  the 
past,"  sent  her  into  fresh  spasms  of  grief.  She 
remembered  every  quarrel  of  their  earliest  child- 
hood :  how  Charlotte  had  always  been  the  "  good " 
one,  the  "  forgiving "  one,  the  one  u  who  would 
grow  up  a  comfort  to  her  parents,"  the  one  who 
conscientiously  picked  plums  out  of  her  cake 
because  they  were  bad  for  her — which  plums,  by- 
the-bye,  she  used  to  drop  on  the  plate  of  the  less 
self-controlled  Blanche.  Not  vainly,  alas  !  But 
then,  Charlotte  did  not  like  the  taste  of  plums, 
preferring  caraway  seeds  !  The  plum  story  loomed 
big  in  Lady  Warcop's  brain,  and  she  howled — not 
for  her  own  sins,  but  at  the  remembrance  of  Char- 
lotte's treachery  some  thirty  years  before,  when 
they  both  wore  pinafores,  and  were  only  learning  to 
be  hypocrites. 

"I  would  not  have  known  you,"  sobbed  her  .lady- 
ship, "  how  you  have  changed  !  What  trouble  you 
must  have  had !  Oh,  Charlotte  !  and  to  meet  after 
all  these  years — two  old  women  !  When  I  was  last 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  375 

in  this  room  you  wore  a  mauve  silk  and  it  went  so 
well  with  your  complexion — you  used  to  have  such 
a  beautiful  colour  and  there  was  not  a  line  on  your 
face — or  at  least  there  were  only  a  few  j  but  now — 
who  would  think  you  were  the  same  creature  ? " 

"You  are  more  fortunate  than  I  am,"  said  Mrs. 
Portcullis,  smiling  horribly,  "  for  you  have  a  grown- 
up daughter  to  remind  us  of  your  lost  attractions  !  " 

Blanche  gasped,  but  although  she  felt  the  weight 
of  Charlotte's  blow  she  was  not  sufficiently  skilled 
herself  to  appreciate  its  science. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  growing  red,  "  do  you  mean 
Teresa?" 

"Surely,"  quoth  her  sister,  in  a  tone  of  horror, 
"  there  is  but  one  I  could  mean  !  " 

Lady  Warcop  lifted  her  eyes  and  gazed  as  bravely 
as  she  dared  at  the  miniature  of  the  late  William 
Duncan  Portcullis  which  reposed  on  Charlotte's 
adamantine  breast.  This  miniature,  however,  only 
served  to  produce  in  Blanche  the  kind  of  panic  which 
we  may  suppose  would  fill  any  weak  creature  who 
saw  scalps  adorning  the  person  of  a  warlike  adversary. 

"Tell  me  about  Teresa,"  said  Mrs.  Portcullis, 
choosing  the  subject  most  humiliating  to  her  sister. 

"  She  is  at  school." 

"  I  understood  she  was  in  a  convent." 

"  Yes,"  faltered  Lady  Warcop,  "  there  is  a  school 
in  the  convent !  " 

"  From  a  Romish  point  of  view  such  equivocation, 
I  know,  is  not  considered  disgraceful.  Our  religion, 
thank  God,  is  not  so  easy  !  You  must  send  for  her 
at  once.  She  is,  if  I  remember  rightly,  eighteen  and 
a  half,  and,  not  to  hurt  your  feelings,  she  can  only 


376  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

retrieve  the  lamentable  circumstances  of  her  birth  by 
making  a  good  marriage.  Although  we  have  not 
met,  my  dear  Blanche,  you  have  been  ever  in  my 
mind,  and  the  alteration  in  my  appearance  which  you 
find  so  startling  is,  no  doubt,  miraculously  evident  to 
you  because  your  disgrace  has  been  its  sole  cause. 
Blessed  with  the  kindest  of  husbands  and  a  good 
conscience,  I  have  had,  nevertheless,  a  constant 
sorrow — that  sorrow  was  my  sister's  shame.  Oh  ! 
do  not  suppose  I  utter  this  as  a  reproach  !  I  name 
it  because  I  think  my  long  years  of  grief  give  me  the 
right  to  express  a  very  strong  opinion  on  the  subject 
of  your  unhappy  child's  education  and  future.  Your 
own  sense  will  tell  you  that  she  must  be  guarded  far 
more  strictly  than  other  girls.  For  instance,  she 
must  not  be  seen  at  balls,  theatres,  race-courses, 
country  houses,  or  the  like,  but  must  rest  content 
with  dinners,  oratorios,  and  good  works  for  the  poor." 

"  You  are  too  kind,"  said  Lady  Warcop,  who  had 
listened  with  astonishing  patience  to  her  sister's 
speech,  "but  I  do  not  wish  Teresa  to  leave  the 
convent  at  present.  She  is  extremely  happy  there, 
and  I  can  only  wish  that  at  her  age  I  might  have 
found  such  a  peaceful  home  far  removed  from  the 
temptations  and  wickedness  of  this  deceitful  world  ! 
As  for  her  marrying,  I  have  too  much  reason  to 
regret  my  own  early  marriage — the  cause  of  all  my 
trouble — to  wish  the  poor  child  to  risk  a  similar 
mistake." 

"  You  did  not  leave  dear  Douglas  for  a  richer  man  !  " 
said  Mrs.  Portcullis,  in  a  tone  which  implied  that  if 
Blanche  had  made  a  more  discreet  choice,  her  sin 
would  have  been  less  odiouSt 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  377 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Blanche  ;  "  but  I  left  a  man 

who  did  not  understand  me  for  one  who You 

know,  Charlotte,  that  Sidney  could  make  himself  very 
agreeable.  There  were  many  women  who  would 
have  been  far  readier  than  I  was  to  run  away  with 
him.  Indeed,  he  has  often  said  that  it  was  my 
resistance  which  chiefly  excited  his  admiration,  and 
if  I  had  not  been  so  firm  on  my  side,  he  would  not 
have  been  so  determined  on  his.  I  saw  that  from 
the  first,  and  I  cannot  tell  you  the  hours  we  spent 
arguing  the  matter  from  every  possible  point  of  view. 
He  used  a  great  deal  of  persuasion  (and  you  may  be 
sure  I  would  not  have  wasted  a  thought  on  him  if  he 
had  not),  but  I  took  the  final  step  with  great  re- 
luctance. We  may  have  been  foolish,  but  we  meant 
no  wrong.  I  was  unhappy  ;  he  was  kind  to  me  j  we 
were  both  young." 

"  Sir  Sidney  was  certainly  young,"  said  Mrs. 
Portcullis.  "As  for  you,  I  can  make  no  excuse 
on  the  ground  of  your  age,  for  I  always  blame  the 
woman  in  such  cases,  and,  to  my  mind,  it  does  not 
matter  in  the  least  whether  she  be  sixteen  or  sixty. 
But  it  is  a  subject  I  must  refuse  to  discuss  with  you, 
since,  in  the  nature  of  things,  it  is  inexpressibly 
painful  to  me.  Let  us  return  to  the  pressing  and 
all-important  question  of  Teresa's  future.  I  would 
suggest  that  you  send  for  her  at  once,  and  then  you 
may  bring  her  with  you  to  a  small  dinner  I  am  giving 
on  the  twentieth.  The  Dundrys,  the  Paget-Herons, 
and  a  few  other  old  friends  of  mine  are  coming." 

Blanche,  who  had  been  hopelessly  hoping  these 
many  years  for  a  smile  of  recognition  from  the 
Lady  Dundry  (known  among  her  intimates  as 


378  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

"Arabella,  dowdy,  but  exclusive"),  no  sooner  heard 
that  magic  name  than  her  whole  demeanour  changed. 
The  little  dignity  and  resolution  she  had  assumed  fell 
like  a  veil,  and  it  was  soon  agreed  between  the  two 
women  that  Teresa  should  be  sent  for  on  the  morrow. 

"The  nuns  must  bring  her  to  London,"  said 
Blanche,  "for  Sidney  hates  the  Channel,  and  it  is 
death  to  me." 

Yet  she  had  crossed  it  on  the  great  occasion  of 
her  elopement. 

III. 

Four  days  after  this  interview  between  Lady  Warcop 
and  her  sister,  Sir  Sidney  might  have  been  seen  making 
his  way  towards  Bedford  Row.  In  person  he  was 
unusually  handsome,  his  head  and  features  reminding 
one  in  a  striking  degree  of  the  popular  representation 
of  Cicero,  while  his  extraordinarily  brilliant  blue  eyes 
and  lively  hair  did  full  justice  to  his  Celtic  origin. 
As  in  the  case  of  Agamemnon,  there  were  many 
men  taller  than  he,  but  in  a  crowd  he  was  not  to  be 
matched  for  grace  and  majesty  of  movement.  There 
was,  however,  a  certain  studied  ease  in  his  gestures,  a 
premeditated  charm  in  his  manner,  which  to  those 
who  disagreed  with  his  politics  made  insincerity  seem 
the  sincerest  thing  about  him.  But  if  he  had  not  a 
guileless  soul,  he  had  at  least  immaculate  linen,  which 
so  dazzled  the  spectator  by  its  purity  that  to  a  cynical 
mind  it  might  have  seemed  that  in  this  generation  a 
good  laundress  is  more  useful  than  a  clean  record. 

When  Sir  Sidney  entered  the  private  office  of  Mr. 
Robert  Waddilove  (of  the  firm  of  Waddilove,  Shorn- 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  379 

cliffe,  ShornclifFe,  and  Pride,  Solicitors),  Mr.  Waddilove 
rose  from  his  chair,  bowed,  and  remembered  the  time 
when  he  would  have  called  on  his  client  and  trifled 
away  a  pleasant  morning  with  scandal,  choice  cigars, 
incomparable  sherry,  and  a  "  little  matter  of  business," 
which  came  last  and  was  invariably  left  "  to  your 
discretion,  Waddilove."  But  now,  oh  heavy  change  ! 
Even  as  the  Baronet  entered  he  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Not  detain  you  ten  minutes,"  he  said,  speaking 
rapidly,  and  as  though  he  were  dictating  a  telegram. 
"  Not  legal,  but  domestic.  Wife  most  annoying. 
Teresa  coming  home.  Wife  in  hysterics  every  time 
girl's  name  is  mentioned.  No  living  in  the  house." 

Waddilove  rubbed  his  chin.  He  was  a  man  of 
middle  age,  short,  but  so  compactly  built  that  to  look 
at  him  made  one  think  of  bricks  and  cement.  His 
quick  brown  eyes  were  remarkable  for  their  curiously 
mingled  expression  of  shrewdness,  scepticism,  and 
good  humour,  and  his  wry  mouth  showed  that  if 
he  drank  in  life  like  a  worldling,  he  swallowed  it 
like  a  philosopher.  His  nose  was  of  the  penetrating 
order,  and  seemed  to  have  jutted  prematurely  from 
his  forehead,  which  was  broad  and  thoughtful. 

His  under-lip  twitched  a  little  at  the  close  of  Sir 
Sidney's  remarks.  "  We  will  call  this  a  friendly  chat," 
he  said  quietly. 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  the  Baronet,  with  a  radiant  air,  "  not 
professional  ?  Well,  after  all,  it  is  not  a  legal  matter. 
But  you  are  quite  sure  ?  Still,  between  such  old  friends 
any  question  of  business  and  that  sort  of  thing  is  un- 
pleasant. Conversation  becomes  restrained  at  once." 
He  chose  a  chair,  and  sat  in  statuesque  ease. 

"  You  know  what  women  are,"  he  said. 


380  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

Waddilove  closed  his  eyes  as  though  he  would  ex- 
clude a  painful  vision. 

'"You  know  what  my  wife  is,"  continued  Sir 
Sidney. 

The  lawyer  looked  grave,  in  the  formal  manner 
appropriate  to  the  discussion  of  family  skeletons — a 
manner  not  so  much  indicative  of  pity,  which  might 
verge  too  much  on  the  familiar,  as  of  concern — dis- 
interested, brain-felt  concern. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  Lady  Warcop,"  said 
her  husband.  "  She  has  many  excellent  qualities,  but 
on  the  subject  of  Teresa  she  is  a — what-do-you-call- 
'em  ?  " 

"  An  enigma,"  suggested  Waddilove,  but  in  a  voice 
so  modulated  that  had  the  word  been  unwelcome  it 
might  have  passed  for  a  cough. 

"  That  is  the  thing,"  said  Sir  Sidney,  "  an  enigma. 
And  to  turn  against  her  own  daughter,  her  only  child  ! 
She  has  not  seen  her  since  she  was  born  j  there  has 
always  been  some  excuse.  But  now  she  has  suddenly 
sent  for  her,  and  God  knows  why,  for  no  sooner  had 
she  written  the  letter  than  she  declared  she  would  not 
have  her  in  the  house.  Damn  it  all  !  it  is  my  house 
and  my  daughter  !  When  a  man  cannot  have  his  own 
way  in  his  own  house,  then — then  it  comes  to  this — 
somebody  must  give  in.  If  I  say,  £  Blanche,  I  am 
going  to  put  my  foot  down,'  she  begins  to  cry.  She 
says,  too,  that  her  hair  is  turning  grey  with  silent 
worry.  And  you  know,  Waddilove,  she  is  never 
silent,  and  she  is  no  longer  so  young  that  a  grey 
hair  or  two  seems  extraordinary.  But  there  are 
quarrels  between  us  from  morning  till  night,  and  I 
cannot  allow  it.  Life  is  not  worth  living.  Why 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  381 

did  she  send  for  the  girl  if  she  did  not  want  her  ? 
Where's  the  consistency  ?  As  I  told  Blanche  this 
morning — c  Blanche,'  I  said,  as  kindly  as  possible — 
I  did  not  want  a  scene,  as  you  may  imagine — 
4  Blanche,'  I  said,  { if  you  will  tell  me  why  you  sent 

for  Teresa,  in  the  first  place' But,  God  bless 

your  soul  !  before  the  words  were  out  of  my  mouth 
she  flew  at  me  like  a  tigress.  And  what  do  you 
think  she  said  ?  c  What  !  do  you  begrudge  your 
own  child  her  rightful  home  ?  I  suppose  you  do 
not  wish  to  be  reminded  of  the  past.  For  it  was 
all  your  fault,  although  I  have  had  all  the  blame.' 
Imagine  her  referring  to  dead  and  gone  matters  in 
that  offensive  manner  !  And  she  was  the  one  who 
had  been  abusing  the  poor  child — not  I.  I  ask  you 
what  could  any  man  do  with  a  woman  like  that  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  very  difficult  question,"  said  Waddilove. 

"  And  there  is  nothing  to  be  gained  by  a  separation," 
said  Sir  Sidney,  "  because  she  is  so  unreasonable,  and 
can  neither  make  head  nor  tail  of  the  law.  There  is 
no  peace  for  me  this  side  of  the  grave." 

"  What  does  Lady  Warcop  suggest  ?  "  said  Waddi- 
love. "  What  are  her  wishes  in  the  matter  ?  " 

"  God  knows  !  "  said  Sir  Sidney.  "  If  I  knew  what 
she  wanted  we  might  come  to  some  understanding. 
But  one  moment  she  says  one  thing  and  the  next 
another.  My  health  will  not  bear  it  much  longer. 
What  do  you  advise  me  to  do  in  the  meantime  ? M 

"  You  must  be  firm,"  said  Waddilove. 

"  Impossible  j  quite  impossible.  Whenever  I  speak 
firmly  she  begins  to  cry.  You  see,  she  is  a  gentle, 
sweet-tempered  sort  of  woman  by  nature.  One  does 
not  like  to  be  brutal." 


382  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

"  Have  you  tried  persuasion  ?  w 

"I  have  tried  everything — coaxing,  threatening, 
commanding,  and  exhorting  ;  jokes,  presents,  theatres, 
and  sermons  ;  reading,  singing,  playing,  and,  so  far  as 
that  goes,  praying.  No  husband  could  do  more  to 
make  his  wife  happy — unless,  indeed,  he  blew  his 
brains  out !  " 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Waddilove,  "  you  must  make 
up  your  mind  to  endure  these  annoyances." 

Sir  Sidney  sighed  heavily  and  rose  from  his  chair. 
"  Before  I  married  her,"  he  said,  "  she  was  as  mild  as 
an  angel.  She  was  a  little  contrary  now  and  again, 
but  one  kind  word,  and  she  would  do  anything. 
Douglas  Cockburn  never  understood  that,  and  tried 
bullying.  Now  I  see,  however,  that  there  were  faults 
on  both  sides.  Of  course,  I  would  not  say  as  much 
to  any  one  else.  This  is  a  judgment  on  me,  Waddi- 
love, and  if  I  did  not  know  it  was  a  judgment  I  could 
not  bear  it  another  day.  As  it  is,  I  will  face  it  out  to 
the  bitter  end.  Good-bye." 

He  left  the  office  with  the  uneasy  idea  that  he  had 
been  talking  too  freely,  and,  as  a  consequence,  he  began 
to  hate  Waddilove  as  a  prying,  impertinent  fellow — a 
fellow  to  be  avoided.  What  right  had  he  to  ask  so 
many  questions  ?  But  it  had  been  a  relief  to  speak 
out :  to  utter  his  feelings  ;  to  rid  himself  even  by  a 
straw's  weight  of  that  load  of  sorrow,  disappointment, 
dissatisfaction,  and  weariness,  the  bearing  of  which, 
after  all,  proved  that  his  poor  fragment  of  a  soul  had 
still  its  use  in  the  scheme  of  salvation. 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  383 


IV. 


Lady  Warcop,  meanwhile,  was  pacing  the  floor  of 
her  boudoir.  In  her  hand  she  held  the  photograph  of 
a  singularly  plain  little  girl,  who  stood  in  a  cork  grotto 
staring  at  a  stuffed  dog.  This  portrait  of  Teresa  had 
been  taken  some  ten  years  before,  and  Blanche  had 
lacked  the  courage  to  send  for  another.  And  now, 
without  warning,  to  be  obliged  to  present  this  to  the 
world !  It  was  too  hard,  too  bitter,  too  outrageous. 
Was  ever  woman  called  upon  to  suffer  such  mortifica- 
tion ?  As  for  motherly  feelings,  what  were  they? 
How  could  she  love  a  creature  she  had  never  seen  ? 
Some  one  had  once  shown  her  an  infant,  but  she  had 
felt  too  ill  to  notice  the  piteous  object.  She  did  not 
even  understand  that  it  was  her  own.  There  was  so 
much  cant  and  nonsense  talked  about  maternal  instinct. 
A  cab  drove  up  to  the  door  ;  with  a  cry,  her  Ladyship 
rushed  to  the  window.  Thank  goodness,  it  was  only 
Sidney.  What  suffering !  What  suspense !  One 
more  day  like  this,  and  she  would  be  on  her  death- 
bed. 

"  Ah  !  so  you  have  come  at  last,  Sidney  ?  "  Where 
had  he  been  all  the  morning  ?  She  made  few  demands 
on  his  time,  but  she  certainly  thought  that  in  common 
decency  and  merely  for  the  sake  of  appearances  he 
would  have  remained  with  her  to  receive  poor  darling 
Teresa.  It  was  true  that  she  had  not  yet  arrived,  but 
this  did  not  alter  the  fact  that  he  might  have  missed 
her.  Poor  child' !  a  stranger  in  her  own  father's  house  ! 
But  the  world  was  a  cruel  place,  and  she,  for  her  part, 
was  sick  and  tired  of  it.  If  it  were  not  for  Teresa,  who 


384  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

needed  a  mother's  care,  she  was  by  no  means  sure  that 
she  might  not  seek  a  speedy  way  out  of  it.  Suicide, 
of  course,  was  wicked,  but  God  was  never  hard  on 
women.  He  understood  them  :  men  did  not.  .  .  . 
Was  that  the  bell  ? 

"  Go  and  meet  her,"  said  Blanche.  "  Try  and  look 
affectionate.  I  want  the  poor  little  thing  to  think  we 
are  glad  to  see  her.  As  for  me,  I  feel  too  ill  and  ex- 
traordinary to  move." 

As  she  spoke,  however,  the  door  was  opened,  and 
two  nuns,  followed  by  a  young  girl,  were  ushered  in. 
Her  Ladyship  flushed  and  paled,  and,  without  speak- 
ing, with  tears  raining  down  her  cheeks,  took  the 
girl  in  her  arms,  tenderly,  closely,  as  only  a  mother 
can. 

Sir  Sidney  rubbed  his  eyes,  almost  fearing  to  rest 
them  on  a  scene  so  beautiful,  so  new  in  his  experience. 
Blanche  seemed  to  him  transfigured,  and  he  saw  in  that 
brief  moment  the  woman  she  might  have  been  :  all  the 
fair  ambitions  she  had  forgotten,  all  the  good  impulses 
she  had  not  obeyed  flashed  their  pure  light  on  her 
countenance. 

Like  some  guilty  creature,  he  left  the  room.  He 
was  the  only  sinner  there. 


CHARACTERS  OF  THE  BOOK. 

LORD  TWACORBIE. 

SIDNEY  WICHE,  M.P.,  Proprietor  and  Editor  of"  The  Watchman} 

NICHOLAS  T.  VAN  HUYSTER,  an  American  millionaire  and  pott. 

CAPTAIN  SAVILLE  ROOKES. 

SIR  VENTRY  COXE,  a  "widower. 

LADY  TWACORBIE,  his  sister. 

THE  HON.  FELICIA  GORM,  her  step-daughter. 

TERESA  WARCOP,  an  heiress,  cousin  to  Lady  liuacorblt, 

LADY  MALLINGER,  a -very  young  widow. 

LUFFY,  the  head-gardener. 

SPALDING,  the  butler. 

MRS.  DANBY,  the  housekeeper. 


The  scene  is  laid  at  Arden  Lodge,  the  country  seat  of  Lord  Twacorbie, 
in  Mertfordshire.  The  action  takes  place  in  the  course  of  twenty-four 
hours. 

"  One  day  is  with  the  Lord  as  a  thousand  years,  and  a  thousand  yean  as  one 
day." 


385 


THE  dining-room  in  Arden  Lodge  was  superbly  fur- 
nished with  a  silver  chandelier.  This  splendid  object 
was  of  such  incomparable  interest  that  Lord  Twacor- 
bie,  who  was  a  man  of  taste  no  less  than  an  economist, 
had  the  walls  which  formed  its  background,  bare,  the 
floor  beneath  covered  with  a  plain  drugget,  and  the 
tables  and  chairs  in  the  apartment  of  the  simplest 
design.  On  the  same  artistic  principle,  he  gave  large 
dinners,  at  which  the  rarest,  indeed,  unheard-of  delica- 
cies, (which  were  as  disagreeable  to  the  palate  as  they 
were  interesting  to  the  explorer  and  antiquarian), 
formed  the  brief  but  sufficient  menu. 

On  a  certain  evening  in  the  early  spring  of  189-, 
one  of  these  dinners  had  taken  place  with  unusual 
success,  possibly  because  most  of  the  thirty  guests 
were  persons  of  importance,  probably  because  some 
roast  mutton  had,  by  a  new  cook's  judicious  mistake, 
formed  a  vulgar  but  stimulating  addition  to  the  choice 
viands  of  the  banquet.  The  ladies  had  left  the  table, 
and  the  fifteen  men  who  remained  sighed,  some  with 
relief,  some  with  regret,  some  from  the  force  of  ex- 
ample, and  some  because  they  could  dine  no  more 
that  day. 

Lord  Twacorbie  was  a  gentleman  whom  food  did 

not  nourish,  and  whose  airy  shapelessness  made  him 

seem  in  some  way  symbolic  of  the  universe  when  it 

was   without  form,  and   void.     To-night   he   fluttered 

387 


388  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

a  smile  like  the  sun's  on  a  March  morning,  and 
surveyed  the  company  with  the  feverish  gaiety  of 
one  who  is  too  seriously  bored  to  risk  showing  languor. 
He  was  of  all  men  the  last  to  entertain  a  table,  yet 
few  attempted  the  task  so  often,  and  no  one  could 
have  been  more  ignorant  of  his  failures.  He  started  a 
conversation  on  the  Early  Marriages  Bill,  and  quoted, 
with  inspired  inaccuracy,  a  speech  recently  made  on 
that  subject  by  his  friend,  Sidney  Wiche.  Wiche, 
who  happened  to  be  present,  endured  his  host's 
recital  with  the  air  of  one  accustomed  to  suffering ; 
at  its  close  his  countenance  had  something  humorous, 
pathetic,  and  sublime — St.  Lawrence  on  the  grid- 
iron saying,  "  Turn  me !  This  side  is  done  !  " 
must  have  looked  just  so.  The  editor  of  The 
Watchman  was  a  man  of  slender  frame  and  with 
fewer  inches  than  the  ordinary ;  a  small  mortal 
whose  boundless  spirit — imprisoned  yet  not  impa- 
tient for  release — gazed  through  his  eyes.  His  pale 
face,  dull  brown  hair  and  duller  beard,  and  the  ab- 
sence in  his  manner  of  all  that  marks  the  creature  of 
many  fashions  and  one  epoch,  had  made  him  more 
famous  for  his  insignificance  than  any  of  his  contem- 
poraries for  their  distinction.  He  was  about  seven- 
and-thirty,  and  hard  work  had  make  him  look  much 
older. 

Two  men  who  sat  at  the  far  end  of  the  table  seized 
the  advantage  of  their  position,  and,  talking  in  under- 
tones, studied  him  with  lively  interest. 

"  Of  course,  he  is  clever,"  said  the  elder  of  the 
two ;  "  or,  at  least,  he  is  a  great  man  for  the  mob. 
There  is  a  distinction  between  greatness  and  being 
great  in  the  eyes  of  a  certain  class."  The  speaker, 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  389 

Sir  Ventry  Coxe,  had  the  so-called  aristocratic  air 
sometimes  found  in  men  of  middle-class  extraction, 
but  unknown  amongst  the  old  nobility.  Very  young 
girls,  sentimental  women,  and  men  of  his  own  stamp, 
thought  him  extremely  handsome  :  his  features  were 
bold  and  well-defined,  his  dark  eyes  cou.J  express  any 
drawing-room  emotion  with  really  excellent  effect  ; 
his  thin,  straight  lips  suggested  his  refined  tastes  to 
those  who  understand  culture  as  leanness  and  vulgarity 
as  curves. 

"  What  do  they  think  of  Wiche  in  America  ? " 
continued  the  Baronet. 

"  They  wonder  that  he  does  not  marry,"  replied 
his  companion  j  "  there  are  so  many  pretty  women 
in  England." 

Mr.  Nicholas  T.  Van  Huyster  was  a  young  man 
about  eight-and-twenty,  tall,  slight,  dark,  and  clean- 
shaven. His  face  was  not  at  first  sight  sympathetic, 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  did  not  have  the  aggressive 
air  of  one  who  is  conscious  that  he  must  be  known  to 
be  appreciated. 

"Wiche  is  not  popular  in  society,"  said  Sir  Ventry. 
"  He  has  no  presence,  no  manners,  no  small  talk." 

"  No,"  answered  the  American,  "  he  is  not  that 
modern  of  each  May  so  beloved  of  dining  London." 

"  His  family  is  nothing,"  said  Sir  Ventry.  "  His 
mother  was  a  person  of  no  education,  who  lived 
with  an  art-critic  called  Wiche.  By-the-by,  can  you 
imagine  a  more  miserable  occupation  than  this 
scribbling  about  art  ?  What  is  Art  ?  Madness  in 
most  cases,  and  mere  frippery  in  others.  And  only 
one  man  here  and  there  makes  it  pay.  Look  at 
Nature,  I  say,  if  you  want  beautiful  pictures.  But 


3 90  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

I  was  telling  you  about  this  fellow.  It  seems  he  was 
christened  Sidney  Wiche  ;  his  mother  said  that  his 
name  was  at  least  Christian  if  it  was  not  legal  !  I  am 
thankful  to  say  I  never  met  her.  I  do  not  pretend  to 
be  a  saint,  but  a  woman  without  a  conscience  strikes 
me  dumb !  I  feel  that  there  is  nothing  more  to  say  !  " 
"  Conscience  is  the  name  which  the  orthodox  give 
to  their  prejudices,"  said  Van  Huyster.  "But  have 
you  ever  heard,"  he  went  on,  drawing  out  his  pocket- 
book,  tt  that  Wiche's  father  left  a  very  eccentric  will  ? 
I  received  this  from  New  York  last  night."  He 
handed  a  newspaper  cutting  to  Sir  Ventry,  who  read 
the  following : — 

"  Sidney  Wiche  was  to  be  first  a  Christian,  then  a 
scholar,  and  in  course  of  time  a  philosophical  politician. 
He  was  not  to  marry,  *  butj  ran  the  strange  document, 
4  should  he  feel  drawn  towards  the  married  state  let  him 
give  the  matter  his  best  consideration  for  a  no  less  term 
than  five  years,  since  marriage  is  of  all  subjects  the  one 
most  darkened  by  fallacy,  falsehood,  and  false  sentiment? 
During  this  period  of  prayer  and  rejection  he  was  to 
read '  neither  poets  nor  romancers,  but  St.  Thomas  Aqui- 
nas, Cardinal  Newman,  and  the  great  historians,  who, 
between  them,  would  so  satisfy  his  soul,  his  manliness, 
and  his  common-sense  that  after  their  company  any 
feminine  prattler  would  seem  a  plague  rather  than  a 
treasure?  He  was  to  shun  '  as  he  would  the  devil, 
learned  ladies,  ladies  with  artistic  gifts,  ladies  who 
talked  religion,  and  ladies  who  were  not  ladies  !  '  In 
conclusion,  he  was  earnestly  exhorted  to  practise  the 
pious  exercise  of  meditating  for  two  hours  daily  on  his 
own  nothingness  I " 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  391 

"  Very  interesting,"  remarked  Sir  Ventry ;  "  but 
interesting  things  are  never  true." 

"  And  the  truth  is  only  convincing  when  it  is  told 
by  an  experienced  liar,"  observed  Nicholas. 

"  Old  Wiche  has  been  dead  for  some  time,"  said 
Sir  Ventry,  "  and  I  never  heard  that  he  left  Sidney 
either  means  of  support  or  instructions;  it  ought  to 
be  made  known  if  he  did.  One  likes  to  hear  that 
a  man  has  behaved  like  a  gentleman  in  such  matters. 
Unfortunately,  he  died  abroad,  and  his  affairs  were 
managed  by  these  Italian  scoundrels.  One  can  get 
nothing  out  of  them.  I  must  say  I  like  English 
straightforwardness." 

"  The  Watchman  must  bring  in  a  large  income," 
said  Van  Huyster. 

"  Undoubtedly,"  replied  Sir  Ventry.  "  But  what 
a  rag  the  paper  is  !  These  Radicals  are  ruining  the 
nation." 

"  I  thought  Wiche  was  a  member  of  your  own 
party." 

"  My  own  party,"  said  Sir  Ventry,  "  is  not  necessarily 
my  own  politics  !  As  a  man,"  he  went  on,  after  a 
pause,  "  I  like  the  fellow  well  enough,  and  now  that 
he  has  pushed  his  way  into  the  world  we  all  try  to 
forget  his  origin.  But  with  every  desire  to  be  fair, 
I  cannot  bring  myself  to  regard  him  as  a  suitable 
match  for  any  relative  of  my  own.  It  is  only  too 
well  known  that  he  admires  my  sister's  step-daughter, 
Miss  Gorm." 

"  That  does  not  surprise  me,"  said  Van  Huyster, 
fetching  a  deep  sigh,  "she^s  lovely.  Her  face  is  so 
bright  yet  so  delicate — a  star  wrapped  in  gauze  ! " 

Sir  Ventry  dropped  his  lower  jaw,  but  recovered  it 


392  ^  Bundle  of  Life. 

on  remembering  that  the  millionaire  wrote  poetry, 
very  bad  poetry,  too.  "  Felicia  is  certainly  good- 
looking,"  he  said ;  "  perhaps  you  are  aware  that  her 
mother,  the  former  Lady  Twacorbie,  was  an  American. 
She  made  Twacorbie  an  excellent  wife,  however, 
greatly  improved  the  estate  and  was  very  much  liked 
by  the  Royalties.  She  died  young." 

"  Good  wives  so  often  do,"  murmured  Van  Huyster, 
"perhaps  that  is  one  of  their  brightest  virtues." 

Sir  Ventry  abhorred  anything  in  the  nature  of 
satire — it  seemed  to  him  a  convenient  name  for 
offensive  and  unmistakable  allusions  to  his  own  char- 
acter and  career.  On  this  occasion  he  wondered 
whether  Van  Huyster  was  aware  that  he,  too,  Sir 
Ventry  Coxe,  had  in  his  day  buried  some  sixty-three 
inches  of  weary  perfection.  He  decided  to  ignore  the 
remark, 

"  One  can  see,"  he  said,  "  that  Felicia  is  extremely 
un-English  :  her  manners  are  a  little  crude.  But  I 
like  a  woman  who  can  talk :  a  man  wants  to  be 
amused,  he  does  not  want  to  wear  his  brains  out 
amusing  a  wife  !  " 

At  this  point  Lord  Twacorbie  rose  up  from  the 
table. 

The  pantry  was  immediately  behind  the  dining- 
room — and  here,  at  the  close  of  the  dinner,  Spalding, 
the  butler,  the  head-gardener,  Luffy,  and  Mrs.  Danby, 
the  housekeeper,  were  engaged  in  conversation  of  an 
even  more  instructive  nature  than  that  indulged  by 
Lord  Twacorbie  and  his  distinguished  company. 

"  Who  came  down  from  town  this  evening  ? "  asked 
Luffy. 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  393 

"Sir  Ventry,  Mr.  Wiche,  Captain  Rookes,  and 
this  new  American,  Mr.  Van  Huyster,"  said  the 
housekeeper. 

"  And  who  are  the  women  ? "  continued  Luffy. 

"  Miss  Warcop  for  one,"  said  Mrs.  Danby.  "  Be- 
tween ourselves  her  ladyship  is  on  the  matchmaking 
hop  again.  But  there — when  did  she  ever  pull  any- 
thing off  what  you  may  call  satisfactory  ?  She's  too 
hopeful.  And  say  what  you  like,  Luffy,  it  doesn't 
do  to  be  hopeful  in  this  world.  Expect  nothing,  I 
say  ! "  The  widow  shook  her  head,  and  heaved  her 
breast,  and  hurled  a  poignant  glance  at  Spalding,  who 
had  been  shuddering  on  the  brink  of  matrimony  for 
twelve  and  a  half  years. 

"  It  might  be  a  very  good  thing  for  Sir  Ventry  if 
Miss  Warcop  would  have  him,"  said  Spalding  j  "  but 
the  question  arises  in  my  mind,  will  she  ?  If  she 
would  take  my  advice  she  would  stay  single  !  " 

"  Everybody  is  not  so  wrapt  up  in  theirselves  as  you 
are,"  said  Mrs.  Danby,  tartly. 

"  If  I  was  a  woman,"  murmured  Spalding,  in  a  weak 
voice,  "the  man  doesn't  live  that  I  would  sacrifice 
my  peace  of  mind  for.  Men  are  not  worth  so  much 
thought.  The  devotion  of  women  is  something  awful 
to  think  of." 

"It  is,"  sighed  Luffy,  whose  wife  had  a  jealous 
temperament,  "it  is." 

"I  can  say  this  much,"  said  Mrs.  Danby:  "when 
Miss  Warcop  marries  she  will  not  choose  a  conceited, 
self-seeking,  cold-hearted,  unfeeling  half-a-man  like 
Sir  Ventry  !  I  would  not  look  at  him — no,  not  if 
he  draped  me  in  diamonds  from  head  to  foot !  Mr. 
Wiche  is  the  man  for  her," 


394  d.  Bundle  of  Life. 

"Not  he,"  said  Spalding,  "he's  got  his  eye  on 
Lady  Mallinger." 

cc  If  he  was  to  roll  his  eyes  at  Lady  Mallinger  from 
now  till  Doomsday,"  said  Mrs.  Danby,  "  I  should  still 
say  that  he  and  Miss  Warcop  were  made  for  each 
other.  And,  what  is  more,  they  will  marry.  Who- 
ever lives  longest  will  see  the  most.  I  know  what 
I  know.  If  God  Almighty  intends  a  couple  to  marry 
that  marriage  will  come  off.  The  man  can't  help 
himself.  Just  you  bear  that  in  mind  ! " 

She  left  them,  and  neither  of  the  men  had  the 
courage  to  smile.  They  talked  instead  of  the  new 
Cemetery,  and  grew  cheerful  on  the  subject  of 
coffins. 


II. 

ARDEN  LODGE  in  Mertfordshire  is  a  large,  white 
building  surrounded  by  beautiful  grounds,  and  facing 
the  finest  scenery  in  the  county.  This  is  saying 
a  great  deal,  for  although  Mertford  is  flat  and  not 
at  all  wild  or  what  is  called  romantic,  its  rivers  and 
fields,  gardens  and  woods,  toy-like  farms  and  shady 
parks  are,  for  their  kind,  the  prettiest  in  the  world. 
And  one  can  only  find  such  peculiar  prettiness  in 
England  j  it  is  so  well-disposed,  calm  and  unsuggestive 
— inspiring  neither  passionate  sentiments,  nor  un- 
earthly music,  nor  flaming  words,  but  what,  in  some 
opinions,  may  be  better  than  all  these — a  dreamless, 
ineffable  drowsiness. 

On  the  morning  after  the  dinner-party,  a  lady  and 
gentleman  were  strolling  on  the  Terrace  which  led 
by  wide  steps  on  to  the  lawn  of  Lord  Twacorbie's 
residence.  The  lady  was  Miss  Warcop:  her  escort 
was  Sidney  Wiche. 

Teresa  was  no  longer  in  her  first  youth,  and  she 
had  never  been  pretty :  her  oval  face  was  colourless, 
heavy  black  eyebrows  overhung  her  hazel  eyes ;  mouth, 
nose,  and  chin  were  too  obviously  moufh,  nose,  and 
chin.  She  was  remarkable,  however,  and  only  needed 
a  reputation  for  wickedness  to  make  her  considered 
curiously  fascinating. 

As  these  two  came  down  the  steps,  they  were 
commenting  on  the  weather,  the  unusual  warmth 

39$ 


396  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

seeing  it  was  but  Easter,  and  the  freshness  of  the  air. 
When  they  reached  the  lawn,  they  walked  in  silence 
to  a  seat,  sat  down  and  stared  at  the  landscape.  They 
were  evidently  old  friends. 

"  Well,"  said  Wiche,  at  last,  "  is  the  most  practical 
woman  in  the  world,  dreaming  ? " 

UI  was  thinking  of  you,"  she  answered,  looking 
at  him  with  such  frank,  unclouded  affection  that  he 
blushed  to  think  how  little  he  deserved  it.  He  might 
have  made  some  answer,  but  as  she  spoke  they  both 
heard  the  rustle  of  silk  skirts  :  the  sound  grew  nearer  : 
at  last  a  lady,  charmingly  attired  in  a  gown  which 
suggested  grey  vapour  and  sunlight,  approached  them. 
She  presented  a  strange  effect  of  brilliance,  fragility, 
and  mistiness  :  her  features  were  soft,  and  her  head 
in  profile  seemed  rather  a  shadow  in  the  air  than 
something  real  or  human.  But  the  shadow  was 
plainly  womanish — one  could  never  have  mistaken  it 
for  an  angel's.  Her  skin  was  fair,  her  hair  light  brown, 
her  eyes  blue,  sapphirine,  deep,  a  little  troubled :  she 
gazed  at  Wiche,  he  gazed  at  her  j  Teresa  watched 
the  meeting  with  some  uneasiness. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  the  glare  was  so  great,"  she 
said,  faintly  j  "  I  should  have  brought  my  parasol." 

"  Let  me  fetch  it  !  "  said  Wiche. 
•  She  thanked  him  as,  with  an  admirable  semblance 
of  good  humour,  he  left  them. 

"  You  met  Mr.  Wiche  some  years  ago,  did  you 
not  ? "  Teresa  asked,  turning  to  Lady  Mallinger : 
"  did  you  know  him  at  all  well  ? " 

"  That  would  depend  on  what  you  call  well," 
said  the  younger  woman.  Her  voice  was  strangely 
melodious  :  to  hear  it  was  to  think  of  the  fabulous 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  397 

singing  of  fabulous  sirens.  If  she  babbled  of  brick- 
dust,  one  thought  only  of  lute-strings.  For  this 
reason  she  was  never  quoted  accurately. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Teresa,  "  were  you  great  friends  ?  " 

"  I  should  not  say  that." 

"  I  thought  I  saw  him  looking  at  you  rather  often 
during  dinner  last  evening." 

"  Did  he  ?  "  said  Lady  Mallinger.  "  I  hope  my 
hair  was  dressed  properly.  My  maid  is  in  love  just 
at  present,  and  she  makes  me  quite  frightful.  It  is 
not  that  she  is  malicious,  but  Love  is  so  distracting." 
Smiling  sweetly,  she  looked  first  at  the  trees,  then 
at  the  grass,  and  finally  at  Teresa.  "  In  some  ways," 
she  went  on,  "  I  am  rather  sorry  to  renew  Mr. 
Wiche's  acquaintance  :  we  have  nothing  in  common 
— absolutely  nothing.  He  has  the  instincts  of  a  Turk  : 
he  does  not  believe  in  a  woman's  intellect.  Sometimes 
I  wish  I  really  was  stupid  and  lived  in  a  harem ! " 

"  My  dear  !  "  said  Teresa. 

"  I  do,  indeed  :  women  were  not  made  to  struggle 
and  strive.  They  ought  only  to  be  fed  and  clothed 
and  petted.  But  I  thought  otherwise  once.  Before 
my  marriage  I  was  anxious  to  work  out  a  career  :  I 
wanted  to  be  artistic  :  I  thought  I  might  become  a 
famous  actress.  Ah,  to  think  of  those  days  when  I  was 
hoping  and  dreaming,  when  my  thoughts  were  my 
achievements,  when  the  future  seemed  so  far  and  the 
present  so  eternal !  "  Her  voice  trembled,  she  flushed 
and  then  grew  pale  :  one  could  imagine  that  she  was 
struggling  in  a  very  hurricane  of  lost  possibilities. 
"  But  when  work  began  in  earnest,"  she  continued, 
"  when  art  became  a  task,  and  dreaming,  waste  of 
time,  I  confess  I  grew  sick  of  ambition.  I  only 


398  ^  Bundle  of  Life. 

wanted  to  sit  idle  in  the  market-place.  And  so 
I  married,  and  danced,  and  dressed,  and  chattered  : 
I  gave  up  thinking — it  made  me  too  miserable." 
Teresa  had  an  extraordinary  power  of  winning  con- 
fidences :  perhaps  because  she  rarely  talked. 

"  A  woman's  mission  is  to  play  the  fool,"  continued 
Lady  Mallinger,  "and  that  is  why  she  can  only  lead 
a  man  so  long  as  she  does  not  love  him.  On  the 
instant  she  loves,  she  must  be  honest  or  die  :  she 
loses  all  discretion  :  she  quarrels  when  she  should 
cajole,  smiles  when  she  should  frown,  utters  ugly 
truth  when  she  should  tell  pretty  lies  :  she  cannot 
flatter,  she  cannot  pretend — in  fact,  she  can  do 
nothing  but  love — and  that  beyond  sense."  Com- 
manding was  not  the  word  for  Lady  Mallinger's 
manner :  yet  there  was  that  in  her  air  which  in- 
sisted, which  brooked  no  denial,  which  said  pkinly 
enough  :  "  What  I  think  must  be,  because  I  was 
not  born  to  be  disappointed  !  " 

u  I  do  not  agree  with  you,"  said  Teresa,  "  because 
if  I  loved  a  man  I  would  have  no  desire  to  lead  him. 
I  could  only  pray  that  I  might  not  prove  his  stumbling- 
block,  and  that  we  might  help  each  other  to  do  right 
rightly.  Life  is  so  hard  to  live  alone." 

"  Oh,  if  I  only  dared  to  be  natural,"  exclaimed 
Lady  Mallinger  ;  "  if  I  only  dared  to  tell  all  I  think, 
and  feel,  and  know.  If  I  could  only  drop  this  tedious 
gossiping  and  grinning  !  I  am  not  tired  of  living, 
but  I  am  tired  of  my  body — of  this  mummy-case. 
When  I  was  a  child,  I  felt  old  j  now  I  am  a  woman, 
I  feel  young.  I  want  to  go  back  to  the  youth  or 
the  world  :  I  want  the  time  when  love  was  the  only 
happiness,  and  folly  the  highest  wisdom  !  " 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  399 

"  Did  you  ever  talk  like  this  to  Mr.  Wiche  ?  "  said 
Teresa. 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Lady  Mallinger.  "  I  only 
talk  nonsense  to  men  !  " 

"  Dear  me  !  Yet  I  daresay  they  like  it.  But  I 
promised  to  show  Mr.  Wiche  the  primrose  path. 
As  you  do  not  care  for  him,  I  will  meet  him  half- 
way. See  !  he  is  coming  now."  She  rose  from  her 
seat  and  hastened  across  the  lawn  in  the  direction 
of  the  house.  Lady  Mallinger  sat  smiling  to  herself : 
she  had  never  suffered  from  jealousy,  and  she  thought 
it  the  drollest  of  passions.  She  was  on  the  verge 
of  laughter  when  Captain  Rookes  appeared  on  the 
Terrace.  He  was  undeniably  handsome  :  his  features 
had  that  harmonious  irregularity  which  is  so  much 
more  like  truth  than  beauty,  so  much  more  life-like, 
sinner-like,  and  love-like  than  perfection.  His  eyes 
flashed  fire  and  sentiment — youth  lacking  either  is 
dull — melancholy  had  added  a  force  to  their  magic. 

"  Are  you  sure,"  he  said,  anxiously,  as  he  approached 
Lady  Mallinger,  "  are  you  sure  that  it  is  discreet  to 
meet  here  where  every  one  can  see  us  ?  " 

"Of  course,"  said  her  ladyship,  whose  whole 
bearing  and  manner  changed,  and  who  now  assumed 
an  infantile,  prattling,  and  pouting  simplicity  j  "  or 
course,  I  hate  out-of-the-way  corners." 

"  Speak  a  little  lower,  darling,"  said  Saville,  <c  there 
may  be  some  gardeners  about." 

"  That  would  not  matter." 

"  Not  matter  ?  My  dear  Lilian,  you  do  not  know 
the  world.  If  the  world  knew  how  much  we  loved 
each  other,  it  would  grow  suspicious." 

"  Why  ?     Numbers  of  people  love  each  other." 


400  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Captain,  "  but  we  are  not  like 
other  people.  I  love  you  too  well  to  ask  you  to 
marry  me  and  so  drag  you  down  to  a  miserable 
shabby-genteel  existence." 

"  I  do  not  mind  being  poor,  Saville,"  said  Lady 
Mallinger,  eagerly.  "  Before  my  marriage,  Papa  only 
allowed  me  sixty  pounds  a  year  for  my  clothes,  and 
every  one  said  how  well  I  managed.  That,  I  know, 
was  as  a  girl,  and,  of  course,  a  married  woman  has 
to  dress  more — in  a  sense — but  a  handsome  mantle 
goes  a  long  way.  Lady  Twacorbie  has  worn  that 
satin  and  lace  thing  at  least  four  seasons  :  she  has 
had  the  sleeves  altered,  and  it  has  been  re-lined  with 
a  different  colour,  but  it  is  the  same  cloak  !  And  I 
am  tired  of  marrying  for  money  :  it  is  not  as  though 
I  had  not  tried  it.  No  one  can  say  that  I  gave  the 
least  trouble  when  they  married  me  to  Charles — 
although  I  never  did  admire  red  hair,  and  he  was 
the  worst  dancer  in  his  regiment.  I  know  he  was 
most  civil  to  poor  Papa,  but  after  all  he  was  not  so 
rich  as  they  thought  him,  and  it  would  have  been 
wiser,  perhaps,  if  I  had  remained  single  a  little  longer. 
But  you,  Saville,  I  could  be  poor  with  you  :  you  are 
so  sympathetic,  and  you  wrote  me  such  a  beautiful 
letter  when  Charles  died.  I  am  sure,  too,  that  he 
would  have  been  pleased  with  that  lovely  wreath ! 
And — and  I  cannot  forget  the  old  days  when  we 
made  toffee  together  in  the  schoolroom  at  home. 
Do  you  remember  ?  " 

Saville  tried  to  look  as  though  the  toffee  episode 
had  for  him  thoughts  too  deep  for  utterance.  He 
flung  cautious  glances  about  the  scene  and  then  hastily 
pressed  her  hand. 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  401 

"  How  can  you  ask  ?  "  he  said  :  "  But  believe  me, 
dearest  Lilian,  our  only  duty  is  renunciation.  I 
mean,  we  must  forget  our  love,  and  if  we  can,  each 
other.  I  have  been  waiting  months  to  find  words 
for  all  this  :  it  seemed  unutterable.  Truth  is  diffi- 
cult, and  the  less  one  speaks  it  the  harder  it  grows. 
I  have  lied  when  I  pretended  to  be  happy.  I  find 
it  easier  after  all  to  admit  that  I  am  in  despair.  Yet 
not  despair — because  I  feel  that  honour  is  still  dearer 
to  me  than  your  society.  The  thought  is  hackneyed, 
but  so  are  the  commandments.  Some  day  you  will 
meet  some  excellent,  well-meaning  man  who  will 
have  a  fortune  worth  offering  you.  Perhaps  he  will 
not  be  much  to  look  at  and  he  may  not  be  polished 
in  his  manners.  I  daresay,  too,  that  he  will  often 
say  and  do  much  which  will  jar  on  your  refined 
taste.  But  polish  is  not  everything  !  " 

"  I  cannot  live,"  cried  Lady  Mallinger,  "  in  an 
unpolished  atmosphere  !  " 

"  You  see,  my  darling,  we  all  have  to  endure 
disagreeable  things  in  this  life  j  money  and  love 
never  seem  to  go  together." 

"  We  should  have  fifteen  hundred  a  year,"  whim- 
pered Lilian. 

"  What  is  that,  my  dear  child  ? "  said  Saville. 
"Two  thousand  is  the  lowest  income  I  can  conceive 
myself  marrying  on.  As  I  have  said,  if  I  cared  for 
you  in  the  ordinary,  vulgar  way,  I  might  risk  every- 
thing and  urge  you  to  ruin  my  whole  life — and  per- 
haps your  own  as  well.  So,  darling,  is  it  fair  to  tempt 
me?" 

"I  do  not  want  to  tempt  you,"  said  Lady  Mallinger. 
"  I  only  want  to  talk  sensibly.  Please,  please,  dear 
27 


402  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

Saville,  do  not  say  that  I  am  tempting  you.  I  would 
not  be  so  wicked,  for  I  am  sure  you  only  want  to  do 
right,  and  men  know  much  more  about  honour  and 
incomes  and  things  like  that  than  women  do  !  " 

Sweet,  submissive,  believing,  unassertive  Lilian,  of 
a  type  all  but  extinct  !  Where  would  he  find  such 
another  ?  He  rose  from  his  seat  in  agitation,  feeling, 
for  the  moment,  that  he  might  in  an  emergency  show 
the  splendid  indiscretion  of  a  hero.  But  the  mood 
passed,  and  with  it  a  great  deal  of  Lady  Mallinger's 
folly.  Something  else,  indefinable,  chilling,  deadly, 
took  its  place  in  her  soul.  She,  too,  stood  up,  and 
in  silence  they  surveyed  a  far-distant  and  sleeping 
cow. 

"  You  see,  Lilian,"  Saville  stammered  at  last. 

"  I  see  it  all  clearly,"  she  replied.  "  I  only  wonder 
why  I  did  not  see  it  before.  It  would  be  the  greatest 
mistake  in  the  world  for  us  to  marry  !  " 

This  remark  cut  him  to  the  heart :  he  flushed,  his 
whole  aspect  suffered. 

"  No  woman,"  he  said,  "  could  say  such  a  thing  to 
a  man  she  loved.  You  cannot  care  for  me." 

"  I  do  indeed  care  for  you,  Saville,"  she  said,  "  please 
believe  me." 

Rookes,  happily,  did  not  need  much  persuasion  to 
convince  him.  "  This  world  is  a  beastly  place,"  he 
burst  forth.  "  It  has  everything  to  make  one  happy 
except  happiness.  Look  at  us  !  We  are  young,  we 
love  each  other,  we  have  the  same  tastes,  and  we  are 
in  the  same  set.  How  we  could  enjoy  life  !  But  we 
cannot  afford  it." 

"  It  is  hard,"  said  Lilian,  "  terribly  hard.  I  daresay, 
though,  that  it  is  all  for  the  best." 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  403 

"  I  must  go  away,"  said  Saville  :  "  I  see  too  much 
of  you  j  it  is  too  tantalizing  !  But  hush  !  here  comes 
Felicia." 

"  How  well  you  know  her  step  !  "  exclaimed  Lilian. 


III. 

FELICIA  GORM  was  a  young  girl  about  seventeen, 
with  large  blue  eyes,  small  regular  features,  and  rosy 
cheeks  j  to-day  she  was  even  rosier  than  usual. 

"Mama  would  be  so  grateful  if  you  would  talk  to 
Mr.  Van  Huyster,"  she  said  to  Saville  j  "  he  is  asking 
so  many  questions  about  England,  and  no  one  can 
answer  him." 

When  Rookes  had  left  them,  Felicia  tried  to  look 
disinterested.  "  Have  you  ever  noticed,"  she  said, 
"  how  easily  he  blushes.  ...  It  does  not  mean  any- 
thing— although  Mama  says  that  men  only  blush 
nowadays  to  be  mistaken  for  Christians  !  I  am  sure 
that  is  not  the  case  with  Captain  Rookes.  .  .  .  Do 
you  like  him  ?  " 

"  We  are  half-cousins  !  " 

The  young  girl  sat  down  by  her  side.  "Dear 
Lady  Mallinger,"  she  said,  "  I  am  dreadfully  unhappy. 
But  I  am  so  fond  of  you  ;  I  am  sure  you  will  help 
me." 

"  Indeed,  I  will.     What  is  troubling  you  ?  " 

"  Where  shall  I  begin  ?  Mama  sent  for  me  this 
morning.  I  felt  it  was  to  be  a  serious  conversation 
because  she  wore  her  coronet  brooch.  She  told  me 
that  if  Mr.  Wiche  asked  me  to  marry  him,  I  was  to 
say  yes.  Think  of  it !  It  seems  they  have  arranged 
it  all  between  them  ;  they  think  he  is  growing  too 
democratic,  and  now  he  has  refused  a  Baronetcy  he  has 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  405 

become  more  popular  than  ever.  They  say  it  would 
be  such  an  excellent  thing  if  he  married  a  Peer's 
daughter,  and  Mama  says  I  must  sacrifice  myself  for 
the  sake  of  the  country.  I  am  sure  that  marriage 
into  our  family  will  not  change  his  opinion  of  the 
House  of  Lords  !  I  have  no  influence  with  him,  but 
Mama  says  I  must  try  to  have  one  ;  that  he  must  be 
very  fond  of  me  or  he  would  not  stay  here.  Every 
one  knows  that  he  detests  visiting  as  a  rule.  I  believe 
he  is  in  love  with  you,  but  Mama  says  that  is  an  absurd 
idea,  because  he  knew  you  before  you  married  Lord 
Mallinger,  and  he  is  not  the  kind  of  man  who  would 
fancy  your  style  of  beauty  in  a  wife.  He  is  always 
staring  at  you,  at  any  rate.  Then  I  said  he  seemed 
great  friends  with  Teresa  j  but  then,  as  Mama  says, 
dear  Teresa  is  almost  ugly,  and  if  he  had  intended  to 
marry  her  for  her  money,  he  would  have  done  so  long 
ago  !  So  I  suppose  I  must  be  the  one  after  all,  and  in 
the  end  I  shall  have  to  accept  him.  But — but  I  shall 
always  love  Saville  best  !  " 

"  Saville  ?  "  exclaimed  Lady  Mallinger,  in  astonish- 
ment. "Saville?" 

"  If  you  knew  him  as  I  do,  you  would  not  wonder 
that  I  love  him,"  said  Felicia,  blushing  deeply,  "  he  is 
so  chivalrous,  so  noble,  so  unselfish,  just  like  King 
Arthur  in  Lord  Tennyson.  And  to  hear  him  speak 
of  women  !  He  thinks  we  are  all  angels.  I  am  so 
afraid,  dear  Lady  Mallinger,  lest  he  may  be  disappointed 
in  us,  because  we  are  not  all  angels,  are  we  ?  " 

Lady  Mallinger  all  this  time  had  kept  her  eyes  on 
the  ground,  and,  but  for  her  gentle  breathing,  betrayed 
no  signs  of  animation.  At  the  girl's  question,  how- 
ever, she  stirred. 


406  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

"  Has  Saville  told  you  —  has  he  said — has  he 
spoken ? " 

"  He  knows  that  I  love  him,"  said  Felicia,  faintly. 

"  But  has  he  asked  you  to  be  his  wife  ?  " 

"  Not  in  so  many  words,  but  words  are  not  every- 
thing. He  is  not  rich  j  he  is  afraid  people  might  say 
— you  know  what  they  always  say.  Once  he  told  me 
he  wished  I  had  no  money — that  I  was  poor  and  un- 
known. Oh,  I  understand  him  so  well." 

"I  am  sure  your  family  would  not  care  for  the 
match,"  said  Lilian,  at  last ;  "  and  evidently  they  have 
set  their  hearts  on  Wiche.  Wiche  is  rather  odd,  but 
I  was  only  thinking  last  night  what  a  fine  face  he  has  : 
he  would  make  you  a  kind  husband,  and  you  would  be 
quite  contented — after  a  little."  The  foolishest  of 
mortals  may  often  be  startled  into  a  certain  sagacity  ; 
and  Felicia's  innocence  had  the  effect  of  rousing  Lady 
Mallinger's  common-sense  which,  though  undisci- 
plined and  kitten-like,  was  still  promising. 

"  No  doubt,"  she  continued,  looking  gravely  at  the 
girl's  anxious  face,  "  Saville  is  most  agreeable,  and  it 
is  very  pleasing  to  think  that  such  a  handsome,  popular 
fellow  is  in  love  with  one.  But  would  you  feel  so 
flattered  if  he  were  plain  :  if  you  heard,  for  instance, 
that  he  was  fickle,  mercenary,  and  treacherous  !  " 

"But  I  might  hear  that  of  Wiche,  too,"  said 
Felicia.  "You  see,  dear  Lady  Mallinger,  I  must 
believe  in  some  man  or  I  could  not  marry  at  all !  And 
I  would  rather  be  deceived  by  Saville  than  adored  by 
Sidney  Wiche  !  " 

"  That  is  absurd.  I  should  be  very  wrong  to  en- 
courage you  in  such  ideas.  When  you  are  older  you 
will  see  how  foolish  it  is  to  indulge  in  these  fancies ! " 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  407 

"  I  am  afraid  you  do  not  like  Saville,"  said  Felicia, 
suddenly. 

"  My  dear  little  girl,"  said  Lilian,  with  great 
dignity,  "  it  is  only  because  I  am  Saville's  friend  that 
I  understand  your  point  of  view  !  " 

"  Then  why  are  you  so  angry  with  me  for  loving 
him  ?  I  am  sure  you  would  not  care  for  any  one  who 
was  not  noble  and  generous — you  would  not  be  his 
friend  if  he  did  not  have  fine  qualities  !  " 

Conversation  between  a  disillusioned  devotee  and 
an  enthusiastic  novice  is  always  difficult  :  the  dis- 
illusioned fears  to  be  candid,  and  the  enthusiast  fears 
nothing  ;  one  has  not  learnt  enough,  the  other  has  all 
to  learn.  This,  then,  was  the  situation  of  Lady 
Mallinger  and  Felicia.  To  one,  Saville  seemed  a 
traitor  ;  to  the  other,  he  was  a  being  with  neither 
body,  soul,  nor  passions — a  portable  ideal  who,  at  his 
sublimest,  murmured,  "  I  love  you  !  "  Rookes  was, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  a  mortal  whose  good  intentions 
and  generous  admiration  for  the  admirable  were  not 
steady  enough  to  carry  the  load  of  a  fashionable  educa- 
tion, nor  robust  enough  to  endure  the  nipping  cruelty 
of  society  small  talk.  He  feared  his  better  instincts  as 
the  pious  do  their  besetting  sins,  and  when  he  was 
surprised  into  one  of  his  natural  virtues,  his  first  pre- 
caution was  to  make  it  appear  a  polite  vice. 

"  I  will  not  say  one  word  against  Saville,"  said  Lady 
Mallinger,  at  last.  "  I  would  rather  not  discuss  him. 
In  any  case  I  can  only  implore  you  to  obey  your 
relatives  :  after  all  they  must  know  best." 

"  Then,"  said  Felicia,  "  it  would  be  useless  to  ask 
you  to  help  me." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  asked  Lady  Mallinger  ;  "  what 
is  there  that  I  could  do  ?  " 


408  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

"Well,"  said  Felicia,  "you  see  I  am  not  yet 
engaged  to  Mr.  Wiche.  If  he  could  only  be  made 
not  to  propose,  everything  would  come  right.  Dear 
Lady  Mallinger,  if  you  would  only  distract  his  atten- 
tion :  you  are  so  much  prettier  than  I  am,  and  I  am 
sure  he  would  be  far  more  influenced  by  you  than  he 
ever  could  be  by  me.  Oh,  please  promise  me  that 
you  will  try." 

This  suggestion  was  not  without  its  charm.  Lilian 
had  a  certain  liking  for  Wiche  :  he  appealed  to  her 
head  rather  than  to  her  imagination,  to  her  sympathies 
rather  than  to  her  senses  :  and,  though  he  did  not 
inspire  her  with  poetic  thoughts,  he  made  the  prose 
of  her  existence  seem  less  like  prose. 

"  Perhaps  there  would  be  no  harm,"  she  said,  "  and 
yet " 

"  Oh,  do  promise,"  said  Felicia, "  my  life  and  soul 
are  bound  up  in  it." 

"  One  can  tie  a  great  many  knots  in  one's  life  and 
soul,"  said  Lady  Mallinger. 

"  But  love  is  so  mysterious — so  wonderful.  It  is 
the  music  of  the  world." 

"  It  is  a  pity  that  it  goes  so  often  out  of  tune  !  " 
said  Lilian.  "  Oh,"  she  added  suddenly,  "  our  life  is 
on  so  small  a  scale  :  everything  seems  so  petty.  Are 
women  only  born  to  fall  in  love  with  men  like  Saville 
Rookes  ?  Why  do  we  do  these  things  ?• " 

"  Because  there  is  nothing  else  for  us  to  do,  I  sup- 
pose," said  Felicia. 

"  But  think  of  all  these  clever  women  who  paint 
pictures,  and  make  speeches,  and  write  for  the  papers, 
and  sing,  and  act,  and  play.  Ah,  how  grand  it  must 
be  to  have  something  serious  to  think  of!  n 


A  Bundle*  of  Life.  409 

"  I  believe  they  get  very  tired  of  it,"  said  Felicia. 
"  I  am  sure  they  are  not  half  so  happy  as  we  are." 

"  Are  we  happy  ?  "  said  Lilian. 

"  Of  course  we  are,"  replied  the  young  girl. 
"  What  a  strange  question  !  " 

"  Perhaps  it  is  strange.     I  feel  tired." 

"  And  you  look  pale,"  said  Felicia.  "  Let  me  fetch 
you  my  scent-bottle."  She  ran  lightly  across  the  lawn 
and  up  the  Terrace  steps  without  perceiving  Saville, 
who  was  returning  from  another  direction. 

He  came  close  to  Lady  Mallinger  and  looked  into 
her  face. 

"  You  do  not  look  well,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  well  enough." 

"  Did  that  poor  little  thing  bore  you  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all." 

"  Why  are  you  so  curt  ?  " 

"Ami?" 

"  Have  I  offended  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Lady  Mallinger.  "  But  you  know 
quite  well  what  Felicia  has  been  talking  about.  You 
have  acted  abominably." 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  "  asked  Rookes.  "  Is  it  a 
crime  to  pay  a  few  silly  compliments  to  a  child.  She 
is  hardly  more.  You  are  surely  not  jealous  ?  You 
know  you  are  the  only  woman  I  really  care  for.  A 
man  may  love  various  women  for  various  reasons  at  all 
times  of  his  life,  but  he  can  only  love  once,  one  way. 
Each  experience  is  totally  different,  and  absolutely 
new  ;  only  one,  however,  can  be  quite  satisfactory. 
Now  to  love  you  is  my  second  nature  j  it  is  part  of 
my  constitution.  If  you  do  not  trust  me,  why  did 
you  encourage  me  ?  " 


410  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Lady  Mallinger,  with  flashing  eyes. 
"  Why  ?  do  you  ask  me  why  ?  I  will  not  lie  to  you. 
I  loved  you  because  I  thought  you  loved  me — because 
I  felt  that  you  would  help  me,  you,  who  were  so  much 
stronger,  so  much  nobler,  so  much  braver  than  I. 
When  you  said  .  .  .  when  you  seemed  to  think  I  had 
some  beauty,  I  longed  to  be  the  most  beautiful  of  all 
women,  that  you  might  be  proud  of  me  :  I  longed  to 
be  royal  that  I  might  throw  aside  my  royalty  and 
show  the  world  that  I  would  rather  be  ruled  by  you 
than  rule  a  kingdom  :  I  wanted  a  palace  that  I  might 
leave  it  and  follow  you  into  darkness  and  poverty  :  I 
wished  that  we  lived  in  times  of  danger  that  I  might 
save  you  from  death,  that  I  might  lie  for  you,  hate  for 
you,  steal  for  you,  die  for  you  !  How  I  have  loved 
you  !  how  have  you  deceived  me  !  I  have  nothing 
left  but  contempt  for  both  of  us.  .  .  .  Stay  there  !  " 

She  walked  away  alone,  and  as  he  felt  too  ashamed 
to  follow  in  her  footsteps,  he  chose  another  path, 
and  was  therefore  late  for  luncheon.  A  feet  which 
showed  the  injured  woman  that  her  words  had  played 
some  havoc  with  his  conscience. 


IV. 

SIR  VENTRY  had  been  trying  since  noon  to  exchange 
a  few  words  of  immense  importance  with  his  sister. 
At  last,  in  the  drawing-room  after  luncheon,  he  found 
the  moment.  Teresa  was  playing  the  piano  :  Van 
Huyster  and  Felicia  were  within  sight  on  the  lawn. 
Lady  Mallinger  was  cooing  to  some  love-birds  in  a 
gilt  cage  which  hung  near  the  window.  Lady  Twa- 
corbie  sat  at  a  little  distance  from  the  others,  em- 
broidering an  altar-cloth.  She  was  a  being  about  five- 
and-thirty,  dressed  with  elegance,  but  with  no  attempt 
at  individuality.  No  doubt  eleven  out  of  every  dozen 
women  in  her  own  station  were  wearing  gowns  of  the 
same  hue,  make,  and  texture.  Her  hair  was  flaxen 
and  arranged  in  the  artificial,  half-grotesque  style 
commanded  by  Court  hairdressers  :  at  a  first  glance 
she  looked  like  a  wax  doll — the  unchanging  expres- 
sion, the  neat,  set  features,  the  unseeing  eyes,  had  not 
the  divine  impress.  Yet  she  lived  and  was  a  woman  : 
without  her  false  curls,  her  whale-bones,  and  her  stare, 
she  was  even  beautiful  :  in  unguarded  moments,  she 
was  witty.  She  was  not  accomplished,  however,  and 
had  no  force  of  will  ;  the  winds  of  opinion  blew  her 
feather-like  round  the  four  corners  of  her  boudoir. 
But  in  her  way  she  was  perfectly  happy  :  she  sighed 
for  no  new  experiences  and  wept  over  no  old  ones  : 
life  presented  no  enigmas,  and,  feeling  neither  sorrow 
nor  wonder,  she  had  no  need  of  philosophy.  She  read 

4" 


412  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

nothing,  but  was  extraordinarily  observant,  and  had  a 
most  tenacious  memory  for  little  things.  For  in- 
stance, she  could  quote  whole  conversations,  and 
describe  to  a  half-turn  just  how  this  one  entered  a 
room,  that  one  shook  hands,  and  the  other  sat  down  : 
she  delighted  afternoon  callers  by  remembering  how 
each  liked  his  or  her  tea — A.  never  took  sugar,  B. 
liked  three  large  lumps  or  four  small  ones,  C.  only 
drank  hot  water,  D.  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  cream, 
and  so  on.  Thib  was  the  lighter  side  of  her  character  : 
she  had  a  certain  amount  of  sentiment,  and  would 
have  made  a  devoted  wife  and  mother  of  the  primitive 
type.  But  the  creatures  of  her  world  were  bored  by 
devotion,  so  she  flirted  in  the  most  religious  manner 
possible,  and  had  an  Infants'  Bible  Class. 

"My  dear  Charlotte,"  said  Sir  Ventry,  "has  it 
never  occurred  to  you  that  Van  Huyster  is  deeply 
interested  in  Felicia  ?  I  have  observed  it  for  days." 

"  You  are  always  making  unnecessary  discoveries," 
replied  his  sister.  "  You  know  my  plans  with  regard 
to  Felicia.  Wiche  will  certainly  speak  to  her  either 
to-day  or  to-morrow." 

Van  Huyster  is  a  far  more  desirable  match  ;  he  is 
not  only  richer,  but  more  tractable,"  said  Sir  Ventry. 
"  If  he  were  to  speak  first " 

"As  you  say,"  murmured  her  ladyship,  "he  is 
enormously  rich." 

"  Precisely  :  that  is  my  point.  And  he  goes  every- 
where." 

"  But  then  Wiche  is  such  a  power  in  politics,"  said 
Lady  Twacorbie  ;  "  think  what  good  we  could  do 
by  our  influence  over  him  !  " 

<cThe  country  would   be  far  more  grateful,"  said 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  413 

Sir  Ventry,  "  if  we  helped  Van  Huyster  to  spend 
his  money  in  a  gentlemanly  manner.  However,  it  is 
your  affair  not  mine.  I  have  made  a  suggestion  : 
act  on  it  or  not,  as  you  please,"  and  he  strutted 
magnificently  from  her  presence. 

For  some  moments  Lady  Twacorbie  did  not  ply 
her  needle,  but  unpicked  the  stitches  she  had  taken 
during  the  preceding  conversation.  At  last  she  called 
Lilian.  "  Come  and  talk  to  me,  my  dear,"  she  said  j 
"  I  have  not  had  a  word  with  you  since  breakfast. 
You  see  I  drove  Harold  to  the  station  " — (Lord 
Twacorbie  had  gone  to  town  for  a  few  days) — "  He 
was  so  sorry  to  leave  us."  She  glanced  at  Van 
Huyster  and  Felicia  who  passed  the  window.  "  We 
are  so  anxious  about  Felicia,"  she  said  ;  "  young  girls 
are  so  flighty — is  it  reasonable  to  suppose  that  they 
are  competent  to  select  the  right  sort  of  man  ?  Ah, 
if  women  would  only  choose  their  husbands  as  care- 
fully as  they  do  their  bonnets,  how  much  brighter  life 
would  be  !  " 

"  But,  my  dear  Lady  Twacorbie,  what  would  you 
call  the  right  sort  of  a  husband  ?  " 

"  A  man,"  she  replied,  "  with  means,  position,  a 
good  digestion,  and  sound  principles  :  such  a  person, 
for  instance,  as  this  excellent,  kind-hearted,  and  de- 
serving Van  Huyster  !  " 

"  Van  Huyster  !  "  said  Lady  Mallinger,  in  surprise. 

"  Yes.  Have  you  observed  how  extremely  atten- 
tive he  is  to  Felicia  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  have,  now  you  speak  of  it,"  said  Lilian, 
"  but  I  thought  Mr.  Wiche " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Lady  Twacorbie,  "  Mr.  Wiche  is  all 
very  well  in  his  proper  place.  I  have  the  greatest 


414  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

respect  for  his  undeniable  merits.     I  hope,  however — 
I  earnestly  hope  that  he  will  not  do  anything  rash. 
In  fact,  I  may  as  well  confess  that  I  am  in  a  difficulty. 
As  Harold  was  obliged  to  go  to  town  to-day,  and  as 
Ventry  is  not  well,  I  asked  Mr.  Wiche  if  he  would 
escort  Felicia  and  myself  to  the  Bishop's  Bazaar  this 
afternoon.     I  see  now  that  it  might  cause  gossip  in 
the  neighbourhood ;  people  make  such  absurd  remarks. 
Besides,  I  fear  it  is  scarcely  kind  to  throw  the  poor 
man  so  frequently  in  the  dear  child's  society.     Do 
you  think  you  could  keep  him  amused  in  some  way 
until  we  have  left  the  house  :   we  can  pretend  that 
there  was  some  blunder  and  perhaps  take  Mr.  Van 
Huyster.  .  .  .  These  things  are  difficult  to  explain." 
"  I  think  I  understand,"  said  Lady  Mallinger  :  "  of 
course,  I   will  do  anything  to  make   myself  useful. 
But  I  must  at  least  change  my  gown  :  I  heard  him 
say  he  liked  my  blue  muslin  !  "     She  went  out  laugh- 
ing so  gaily,  that  Teresa,  who  was  playing  mournful 
music,  left  the  piano  and  came  down  to  her  cousin. 
"  What  is  the  joke  ?  "  she  asked. 
Lady  Twacorbie  did  not  hesitate  over  her  reply. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  that  Teresa  was  dying  of 
love  for  the  elegant  Ventry  and  would  therefore  have 
no  interest  in  the  matrimonial  schemes  with  regard  to 
Sidney  Wiche. 

"  Ventry  has  convinced  me  with  regard  to  Van 
Huyster  and  Felicia,"  she  said,  at  once.  "  Obstinacy 
is  not  one  of  my  faults,  and  I  am  never  deaf  to  reason. 
I  have  arranged  everything  in  the  most  charming 
way  :  Lilian  has  agreed  to  distract  Mr.  Wiche's 
attention.  Of  course,  dear,  I  would  have  asked  you, 
but  you  are  much  too  clever  !  One  can  only  trust 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  415 

a  fool  to  carry  out  a  plot  of  this  kind  with  success. 
She  is  such  a  simpleton — just  the  silly  creature  to 
hoodwink  a  man  of  genius  !  " 

"  Oh,  this  is  too  much  !  "  said  Teresa.  "  I  assure 
you  a  more  accomplished  actress  never  lived.  She  is 
far  cleverer  than  either  of  us." 

"Absurd  !     Impossible  !  "  said  Lady  Twacorbie. 

"There  is  nothing  easier  than  the  impossible — for 
Lady  Mallinger.  But  I  am  sure  that  Sidney  will  see 
through  her  nonsense  at  once  ;  you  must  remember 
that  he  is  my  friend  and  I  have  known  him  for  years  : 
your  plan  will  not  succeed." 

"  But  he  admires  her  extremely,"  said  Lady 
Twacorbie. 

"  Has  he  ever  told  you  so  ?  " 

"Of  course  not :  it  is  because  he  has  never  said  so, 
that  I  am  certain  of  it.  Men  are  dreadfully  discreet, 
my  dear  Teresa.  I  only  believe  in  what  they  do 
not  say.  But  come,  we  must  leave  the  coast  clear, 
come  !  " 

Teresa  followed  her  slowly. 


V. 

LADY  MALLINGER  re-entered  the  room  a  few  moments 
later,  in  all  her  bravery  of  blue  muslin,  ribbons,  and 
lace.  She  was  cooing  to  the  love-birds  when  Wiche 
came  in.  His  acquaintance  with  Lady  Mallinger  had 
extended  over  some  four  years  :  from  her  point  of 
view  it  might  have  been  called  a  dinner-party  friend- 
ship— that  is  to  say,  they  could  discuss  people  and 
subjects  of  the  hour  with  a  freedom  which  passes  well 
enough  for  intimacy  in  the  vagueness,  bustle,  and 
gigantic  pettiness  of  a  London  season.  But  to  Wiche 
their  occasional  meetings  and  interchange  of  ideas  had 
meant  much  more  j  the  man  of  letters  is  not  a  man  of 
letters  if  he  accepts  life  and  the  circumstances  of  life 
as  they  appear  at  first  sight — it  is  the  prime  instinct 
of  his  nature  to  reject  what  seems  and  to  clutch — or 
die  in  failing  to  clutch — things  not  as  they  are,  but  as 
his  imagination  would  have  them.  To  be  brief,  our 
friend  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  idea  of  loving  Lady 
Mallinger. 

"  Do  I  disturb  you  ?  "  he  said,  and  took  a  seat  near 
her.  She  smiled  at  him  and  made  a  charming  grimace 
at  her  pets. 

"There  is  a  bazaar  at  the  Bishop's  this  afternoon," 
he  continued,  "  and  I  believe  I  was  expected  to  go, 
but  as  Van  Huyster  enjoys  these  things  and  I  do  not, 
I  have  asked  Lady  Twacorbie  to  take  him  in  my 


A  Bundle  of  Life. 

stead.  I  hope  she  will  not  be  offended,  but  I  really 
wanted  to  get  a  quiet  hour  with  you. 

Her  heart  jumped  and  she  studied  him  with  a  new 
interest.  There  is  one  glory  of  the  friend,  and  another 
glory  of  the  possible  lover.  For  the  first  time  she 
discovered  that  he  had  a  certain  intensity,  a  masterful 
air,  a  look  of  determination — all  of  which  she  admired. 

"  We  have  so  few  opportunities  to  speak  to  each 
other,"  he  said. 

"  You  have  changed  since  I  first  knew  you,"  cried 
Lady  Mallinger  :  "  we  were  such  good  friends  once, 
and  now — when  we  meet — I  hardly  know  how  to 
describe  it — there  is  a  coldness,  a  restraint.  I  have 
feared  that  you  did  not  like  me.  But  I  am  saying 
too  much." 

"  If  I  told  you  that  there  was  indeed  a  reason  foi 
my  restraint,  would  you  care  ?  " 

She  put  her  lips  to  the  cage  and  piped,  apparently 
to  the  birds — "  Tell  me  the  reason  !  " 

"  Have  you  never  guessed  it  ?  was  I  so  hard  to 
understand  ?  " 

"  I  could  never  understand  any  man,  but  then  a 
man  never  seems  able  to  explain  himself,  does  he  ? " 

"  It  may  be  that  he  dare  not  try,"  said  Wiche. 

"  What  could  he  fear  ?  "  she  asked  ;  "  can  it  be 
that  men  know  how  unstable  they  are  ?  I  always 
thought  they  could  not,  because  they  never  try  to  be 
firmer.  And  I  love  firmness  !  Now  we  women 
know  only  too  well  that  we  are  very  weak,  very 
foolish,  very  shallow,  and  we  wonder  what  men  can 
see  in  us  !  We  must  be  so  tiresome  !  such  burdens  ' 
such  unnecessary  evils  !  such  tedious,  provoking  crea- 
tures !  Some  of  us  mav  have  some  beauty  j  yet  that 
28 


418  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

soon  goes,  and  then  there  is  nothing  left  of  us  but  a 
headache  !  Oh,  do  not  look  surprised  :  I  fear  I  am 
growing  cynical.  I  am  beginning  to  agree  with  many 
of  your  views  on  the  soul,  and  death,  and  marriage, 
and  things  of  that  order  !  " 

"  Ah  !  never  trust  a  man's  opinion  on  any  subject 
until  he  has  been  in  love,"  said  Wiche.  "  Love  is  the 
only  thing  which  can  make  life  as  clear  as  noon-day." 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  still  find  it  dark  and  perplex- 
ing !  Dear  me  !  how  idly  I  talk.  I  meant  to  say — 
but  would  it  be  impertinent  ?  I  was  only  thinking 
that  a  day,  an  hour,  perhaps  a  few  words  might  make 
all  the  difference  in  your  ideas  !  " 

"  If  I  told  you,"  said  Wiche,  "  that  sleeping  and 
waking  I  heard  but  one  voice,  saw  but  one  face." 

"  Does  it  bore  you  ?  "  she  said,  "  would  you  rather 
not  see  it  ?  " 

"  Each  day,"  he  continued,  "  it  grows  dearer  to  me, 
more  beautiful,  more — ah  !  if  I  waited  until  I  were 
more  eloquent  I  would  never  speak,  never  tell  you  my 
one  hope,  my  one  aim,  my  one  ambition — above  all 
things,  beyond  all  things,  before  all  things.  Just — to 
gain  you  j  to  gain  you — just  that.  T  would  not  own 
it  was  impossible,  I  only  saw  you,  loved  you  and 
waited.  You  passed  me  by,  you  hardly  knew  me.  I 
was  only  one  in  a  crowded  world.  A  friend  ?  Yes, 
when  you  remembered  me  ?  was  that  often  ?  Some- 
times we  talked  together  :  once  I  wrapped  you  in 
your  opera  cloak,  have  you  forgotten  ?  I  touched 
your  cheek — it  was  an  accident." 

"  As  you  say,"  murmured  Lilian,  "  it  only  happened 
once." 

"  Another  time  you  leant  for  a  moment  on  my  arm." 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  419 

"  That  was  a  year  ago  !  ' 

"  In  March,"  he  said,  "  it  was  a  perfect  night.'* 

"  Oh,  no  !  it  rained." 

"  A  perfect  night,"  he  repeated,  moving  nearer, 
"  and  you  never  guessed  how  much  I  loved  you  :  how 
much  you  were  to  me  j  how  much  I  loved  you  ! 

How  beautiful,  how  very  beautiful "  He  kissed 

her. 

Lady  Mallinger  started  away  in  a  sudden  panic.  "  I 
did  not  mean  to  say  so  much,"  she  said.  "  I  did  not 
mean — but  hark  !  "  She  put  her  finger  to  her  lips 
and  flew  across  the  room  into  a  large  chair  with  wide 
arms.  These  concealed  her  from  Teresa  Warcop  who 
now  entered.  She  was  evidently  much  agitated  in 
spite  of  her  quiet  manner.  "  I  am  so  glad  to  find  you 
alone,"  she  said  to  Wiche,  "  because  I  must  speak  to 
you.  But  first  let  me  say,  in  justice  to  myself,  that  I 
am  not  a  mischief-maker.  If  I  ever  seem  meddlesome 
it  is  only  because  I  am  so  interested  in  my  friends  that 
I  cannot  remain  silent  when  speech  would  be  of  service 
to  them." 

"  You  have  too  much  heart,"  said  Wiche. 

"  I  cannot  bear  to  see  a  man  deceived,  trifled  with, 
made  a  jest  for  chattering  vixens  ! "  said  Teresa, 
passionately. 

"  The  worst  of  it  is  that  he  rarely  shows  gratitude 
if  one  endeavours  to  enlighten  him." 

"  A  thankless  task,  I  know,"  said  Teresa  ;  "  but  if 
we  only  do  our  duty  for  the  sake  of  being  thanked,  we 
are  miserable  creatures.  .  .  .  O  Sidney  !  never  trust 
a  woman  !  At  least,  never  trust  blue  eyes  !  Oh  ! 
when  I  think  of  it,  I  lose  all  patience,  almost  all  charity. 
That  such  a  man  should  be  duped  by  such  a  woman  ! 


426  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

Woman,  did   I   say  ?     No,  a  mere  bundle  of  fire  and 
frivolity  !  " 

"  How  much  more  promising  than  mere  flesh-and- 
blood,"  exclaimed  Wiche. 

"She  made  a  bargain,"  said  Teresa,  "a  kind  of 
wager — that  she  would  force  you  into  a  flirtation. 
And  she  thinks  she  is  succeeding  :  she  even  began  her 
machinations  at  luncheon.  I  saw  it  all :  her  looks, 
laughs,  sighs.  Oh,  it  was  insupportable  !  " 

"  Are  you  speaking  of  poor  little  Felicia  ?  "  said 
Wiche. 

"  Felicia  ?  "  said  Teresa.  "  Felicia  ?  When  I  speak 
of  a  creature  with  neither  heart,  morals,  mind,  nor 
beauty — a  heap  of  lies,  vanity,  and  affectation — I  mean 
Lady  Mallinger." 

Wiche  grew  so  pale  that  Teresa — half  with  jealousy 
and  half  with  fright — grew  even  paler.  She  held  out 
both  her  trembling  hands,  and  stumbled  blindly  towards 
him. 

"My  heart  has  been  with  you,"  she  stammered. 
"  I  feel  it  all,  see  it  all,  know  it  all." 

What  she  meant  she  hardly  knew.  He  neither 
looked  nor  uttered  a  reply  ;  but,  brushing  past  her 
with  a  gesture  hard  to  translate,  walked  to  the  window. 
A  stillness  almost  like  some  grim  and  living  presence 
filled  the  room.  Teresa  remained  in  her  rigid  attitude, 
staring,  with  despairing  tenderness,  not  at  the  man,  but 
at  the  place  where  he  had  stood. 

"  A  wager  !  a  bargain  !  "  said  Wiche,  at  last.  "  I 
do  not  understand." 

"Nor  did  I  when  I  first  heard  it,"  said  Teresa. 
"  I  could  scarcely  believe  anything  so  odious,  even  of 
her.  And  I  have  heard  a  good  many  stories,  too  ! 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  42 1 

But  Charlotte  explained  the  matter  only  too  clearly. 
Lilian  was  to  distract  you.  That  was  the  expression  : 
her  own  words."  She  paused  a  moment.  Wiche 
never  stirred,  but  kept  one  unchanging  expression, 
which  betrayed  nothing  save  its  unchangeableness. 
"  Have  I  been  wrong  to  tell  you  ?  "  she  went  on  ; 
"have  I  been  wrong?  But  friendship,  my  sense  of 
justice,  and  you — the  noblest  man  I  know,  the  one 
above  all  others  I — I  respect." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you — or  her,"  said  Wiche, 
at  last. 

"My  dear  friend,  men  only  understand  the  kind  of 
woman  who  is  more  masculine  than  a  man  !  .  .  . 
But,  Sidney,  are  you  vexed  with  me  ?  Have  I  been 
too  zealous  ?  You  know,  you  surely  believe  I  meant 
no  malice  ?  Yet  I  cannot  say  that  I  feel  any  kind- 
ness for  Lady  Mallinger  ;  that  would  be  impossible. 
I  despise  her  !  " 

"  Is  that  necessary  ?  "  said  Wiche. 

"  Can  I  forgive  her  conduct  towards  yourself?  Not 
that  she  has  succeeded  in  fooling  you.  But  the  attempt 
— I  cannot  forgive  the  attempt.  What  impudence  ! 
what  presumption  !  " 

"  Ah,  there  you  are  unjust  !  The  feat  was  well 
within  her  power  :  I  was  only  too  willing  to  be- 
fooled." 

"  Willing  !  "  cried  Teresa.  "  Where  is  your  spirit  ? 
How  weak  a  man  is,  after  all  !  What  a  mercy  that 
she  cannot  hear  you  :  it  would  make  her  even  vainer 
than  she  is  by  nature." 

"  I  fear  we  are  growing  too  old  and  prosaic,"  said 
Wiche,  bitterly  ;  "  no  wonder  these  young  people  try 
to  rouse  us." 


422  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

«  Sidney  !  ...  Do  I  seem  old  ?  " 

"  No  one  would  guess  your  age,"  he  said,  without 
looking  at  her 

"  Unfortunately,  you  know  it ! "  said  Teresa. 
"Would  you  have  forgiven  me^  if  I  had  made  such 
a  bargain  as  this  other  woman  ?  I  think  not.'* 

Wiche  did  not  heai  the  remark,  or  if  he  did,  he 
made  no  reply. 

She  swallowed  a  sob  and  left  the  room 


VI. 

LADY  MALLINGER  came  forward  half-crying,  half- 
defiant. 

"  I  cannot,  I  will  not  believe  one  word  Teresa  has 
said  ! "  exclaimed  Wiche.  "  She  is  the  most  honest 
soul  in  the  world,  but  she  makes  mistakes." 

"  You  would  be  wiser,"  said  Lilian,  slowly,  "  if  you 
believed  her." 

"  So  you  admit  it,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  think  that 
Love  is  a  plaything  ?  a  mood  for  a  dull  afternoon  ?  a 
frame  of  mind  to  jump  in  and  out  of  just  for  amuse- 
ment ?  Is  it  nothing  to  stake  your  life  on  another's, 
to  be  faithful  when  they  are  faithless,  strong  when 
they  are  weak  ?  Is  it  so  little  to  love  like  this  ?  Do 
you  think  it  is  so  easy  ?  Do  you  think  it  brings 
much  happiness  ?  " 

Until  that  hour,  the  devotion  he  had  felt  for  Lady 
Mallinger  was  of  that  unreal  kind  which  is  only 
dangerous  so  long  as  its  object  remains  an  idea.  It 
was  to  a  great  extent  theoretic,  and  based  on  the 
dogmas  of  erotic  poetry  :  in  her  image  he  loved  a 
dozen  heroines — not  one  woman.  Now  that  he 
had  kissed  her,  however,  and  she  had  shown  herself 
sufficiently  human  to  rouse  his  anger,  the  whole 
relation  changed.  He  no  longer  saw  her  through 
the  mist  of  sentimental  fancy ;  she  was  simply  a 
pretty  woman  who  attracted  him.  He  felt  vaguely 
that  she  might  tempt  him  to  say  and  do  much 
4*3 


424  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

which  he  would  surely  repent  of.  He  repeated 
again,  "Do  you  think  such  love  brings  much 
happiness  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  if  you  only  knew  me  as  I  know  myself," 
murmured  Lady  Mallinger.  "All  that  Teresa  said 
of  me  was  true — and  yet,  not  true  enough.  Every- 
thing about  me  was  falsehood  and  pretence,  until — 
until  you  seemed  to  believe  in  me.  Do  you  under- 
stand ?  Can  you  not  see  ?  Are  you  so  unforgiving, 
or — are  you  only  blind  ?  Why  are  you  so  silent  ?  " 

She  held  out  her  hand,  which  he  took  half-eagerly 
and  half  in  dread  :  her  lightest  touch  seemed  so  much 
more  satisfying  than  all  the  wisdom  of  the  ancients. 

"  If  I  could  only  remain  silent,"  said  Wiche, 
passionately  ;  "  if  I  could  only  keep  you — only  feel 
that  you  were  mine — mine — mine  at  all  risks  !  Yet 
no — you  act  too  well.  I  could  never  know  how 
much  I  was  mistaken." 

"Why  should  we  refuse  the  happiness  this  hour 
gives  us,  because  some  other  hour  might  take  it  away  ? 
In  the  meantime,  there  can  be  no  better  thing  than 
this.  No  one  before  has  ever  cared  whether  I  was 
in  jest  or  earnest,"  she  faltered  ;  "  every  other  man 
takes  it  for  granted  that  I  am  heartless,  brainless,  and 
soulless  in  any  case.  When  I  am  serious,  they  say  I 
am  in  low  spirits  j  when  I  am  sincere,  they  praise  my 
hypocrisy.  So  I  take  refuge  in  deceit,  and  I  succeed 
so  well  that  now  I  have  deceived  myself,  and  I  no 
longer  know  what  I  mean,  what  I  want,  what  I 
think,  or  what  I  am  !  To  judge  me  fairly,  you 
should  have  lived  my  life.  My  father  was  not  kind  ; 
at  eighteen  I  married.  The  world  liked  my  husband  : 
he  ate  too  much,  drank  too  much,  and  made  tqq 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  425 

merry  with  other  people's  lives.  No  one  knows 
what  I  have  suffered,  I  have  only  found  one  thing 
which  outweighs  disappointment — bitterness — all — all 
that  is  harsh,  heavy  to  bear,  and  terrible.  That 
moment — that  one  moment  when  you  trusted  me. 
...  It  was  so  unexpected.  I  had  always  liked  you 
as  a  friend ;  but  you  seemed  so  fur  away,  and  I 
thought  you  could  only  have  contempt  for  me  and 
my  vain,  hopeless  life.  And  the  end  of  it  all  ?  Do 
you  suppose  I  never  think  of  that  ?  Every  night 
I  say  to  myself,  *  Another  day  has  gone  ;  another  day 
of  false  hopes,  false  friends,  false  loves,  false  hates,  false 
griefs  ! '  Think  of  it  !  Not  even  a  real  grief:  my 
life,  myself,  all — all  a  sham  !  " 

"  Help  me  to  be  as  honest  as  you  are,"  said  Wiche  : 
"  is  there  no  eternity  before  us  ?  the  longest  past  is 
but  a  second  in  comparison.  See  !  "  he  said,  kissing 
her,  "  we  have  forgotten  it  already  !  " 

Men  may  still  find  oblivion  in  a  kiss,  but  women 
of  fashion  are  always — or  nearly  always — too  self- 
conscious  to  forget  the  artificialities  of  life  in  the 
verities  of  passion. 

"  Forgotten  already  ?  "  repeated  Lady  Mallinger, 
moving  away  from  him,  "I  wish  it  were.  Do  not 
be  angry  with  me,  but  I  must  be  alone  a  little.  There 
are  so  many  things  to  think  about — so  many  things. 
Give  me  half  an  hour." 

"  So  much  ?  "  said  her  lover. 

"  Have  we  not  eternity  before  us  i     she  replied. 

Wiche  laughed,  kissed  both  her  hands,  and  went 
out  on  to  the  Terrace  :  he  found  it  almost  as  delight- 
ful to  obey  her  whims  as  to  worship  her  beauty.  Only 
the  strong-minded  can  know  the  extreme  pleasure 


426  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

of  self-surrender.  Wiche's  life  had  been  so  hard,  so 
serious,  and,  in  a  sense,  so  wise  until  this  too-en- 
chanting present,  that  he  seized  its  madness  rather  as 
a  reward  from  the  gods  than  a  curse.  He  put  all 
thought  of  the  future  from  his  mind — not  because  he 
feared  it,  but  because  it  possessed  no  attraction  for 
him.  Lady  Mallinger  was  an  inexhaustible  delight : 
egoism,  which  in  any  other  woman  seemed  intolerable, 
was,  in  her  case,  the  most  charming  thing  in  the 
world  :  selfishness,  he  argued,  where  the  self  was  so 
perfectly  bewitching  even  amounted  to  a  duty  :  dull, 
tedious,  and  unpleasant  beings  did  well  to  lose  sight  of 
themselves,  but  for  Lilian  to  forget  herself  would  be 
like  a  flower  forgetting  to  bloom. 

When  Wiche  had  gone  Lilian  paced  the  floor  and 
mistook  this  bodily  exercise  for  deep  thought.  She 
was  brought  to  a  standstill  by  finding  herself  face  to 
face  with  Teresa,  who,  not  being  able  to  quiet  her 
soul,  had  returned  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Wiche  once 
more. 

"  You  look  depressed,"  she  said  to  Lady  Mallinger  : 
"at  luncheon  you  were  all  vivacity,  epigram,  and 
paradox.  If  you  had  not  told  me  I  should  never 
have  suspected  that  you  considered  it  your  vocation 
to  play  the  fool  ! " 

"Ah,  I  am  much  wiser  since  our  conversation  this 
morning,"  said  Lady  Mallinger,  "  I  am  sure  that  the 
supreme  happiness  of  a  woman's  life  is  to  devote 
herself  to  the  man  who  loves  her  •  to  be  his  friend, 
his  ideal,  his  good  angel !  " 

Teresa  smiled  bitterly.  "And  the  supreme  diffi- 
culty of  a  woman's  life,"  she  said,  "  is  to  find  the  man 
who  desires  such  devotion,  who  has  an  ideal,  who 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  427 

wants  a  good  angel !  The  best  of  men  only  ask 
us  to  be  for  ever  young  and  for  ever  pretty :  let  your 
conscience  go  to  the  dogs  but  keep  your  freshness. 
Virtue  never  yet  atoned  for  wrinkles  !  " 

"  There  I  cannot  agree  with  you,"  said  Lady 
Mallinger.  "I  am  sure  that  there  is  nothing  so1 
fascinating  as  sincerity  !  It  is  so  uncommon.  I  am 
going  to  be  the  most  sincere  woman  in  the  world, 
and  I  must  begin  by  telling  you  that  I  was  present 
just  now  during  your  conversation  with  Mr.  Wiche." 

"  What  conversation  ?  "  said  Teresa. 

"  Let  us  both  be  sincere,  dear  Miss  Warcop  !  I 
was  sitting  in  that  green  chair  when  you  mentioned 
my  name.  My  first  impulse  was  to  rush  forward  : 
curiosity,  however,  intervened  and  I  remained  in 
my  corner.  Perhaps  this  was  wrong,  but  my  position 
was  difficult :  to  begin  with,  I  agreed  perfectly  with 
every  word  you  said  :  you  were  only  too  charitable. 
I  assured  Mr.  Wiche  of  this  afterwards,  but  he  would 
not  believe  me.  When  I  told  him  that  I  had  indeed 
neither  mind,  morals,  heart,  nor  beauty,  he  looked  so 
incredulous,  and  was  so  deaf  to  all  argument  that  I 
despair  of  convincing  him  !  Men  are  so  prejudiced. 
What  would  you  advise  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  This  sarcasm  does  not  cut  !  " 

"  Sarcasm  ! "  cried  Lilian,  "  I  was  never  more 
candid,  more  natural,  more  absolutely  transparent  in 
my  life.  Why  should  I  dissemble  when  I  have  found 
that  you  know  me  even  better  than  I  know  myself  ?  " 

"  This  innocent  air  may  deceive  some  infatuated 
man — for  a  time,"  said  Teresa,  "  but  I  understand  it 
too  well.  How  can  you  dare  to  look  so  amiable  when 
you  know  that  you  hate  me.  .  .  .  You  must  hate  me." 


428  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

"  Not  at  all :  I  think  you  are  indiscreet  and  per- 
haps too  impulsive,  but,  on  the  whole,  I  admire  your 
character :  it  has  a  stability,  a  doggedness,  a  courage 
which  mine  lacks.  I  would  never  have  the  audacity, 
for  instance,  to  discuss  your  faults  with  Sir  Ventry. 
He  would,  I  hope,  be  quite  as  blind  with  regard  to 
you  as  my  future  husband  is  where  I  am  concerned." 

"Your  future  husband  ?  "  said  Teresa. 

tt  Yes,"  said  Lady  Mallinger.  "  Sidney  was  foolish 
enough  to  ask  me  to  be  his  wife — at  least,  in  so  many 
words — and  I  was  wise  enough  to  accept  him  !  If  he 
will  only  trust  me  and  believe  in  me  always — if  he 
will  only  see  me — not  as  I  am,  but  as  I  should  be — I 
am  sure  we  shall  be  happy  !  " 

"  It  is  not  hard  to  be  good  when  you  have  love  and 
sympathy  and  encouragement,"  said  Teresa,  warmly, 
"  but  to  be  good  when  not  one  soul  cares  whether  you 
live  or  die,  when  your  kindest  thoughts,  your  least 
selfish  acts,  your  dearest  sacrifices  are  treated  alike 
with  insult,  cruelty,  and  contempt — to  be  good  then, 
that  is  the  great  achievement.  Stand  alone,  be  in- 
different to  smiles  and  frowns,  keep  your  eyes  steadily 
fixed  on  one  unattainable  ideal  and  condemn  in  your- 
self all  that  falls  short  of  it,  do  that  and  I  will  call 
you  happy  !  Defy  slander,  defy  the  malice  of  evil 
tongues  and  false  hearts,  defy  even  one  rule  of 
etiquette  !  " 

"  No  woman  has  anything  to  fear  except  the  truth," 
said  Lady  Mallinger,  "  so  long  as  the  truth  will  bear 
telling,  she  can  laugh  at  lies.  They  may  for  a  time 
work  mischief,  but  only  for  a  time." 

"  I,  too,  could  have  such  a  faith  in  the  triumph  of 
virtue  if  \  had  such  a  lover  as  Sidney ! "  said  Teresa, 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  429 

"but  live  my  life  for  a  month  and  then  tell  me  your 
philosophy  !  " 

"You  look  cold,"  murmured  Lilian,  after  a  shiver 
and  a  slight  pause. 

"  Cold  !   I  am  always  cold  :  feel  my  hand." 

Lady  Mallinger  held  it  to  her  own  pink  cheeks. 
"  You  make  me  like  you,"  she  said  ;  "  as  a  rule  I  do 
not  care  for  women,  and  you  are  almost  as  spiteful  as 
the  rest.  But  there  is  something  about  you.  .  .  . 
You  believe  me,  when  I  say  I  like  you  ?  " 

"  Yet  you  have  robbed  me  of  my  one  friend,"  cried 
Teresa,  "  you — you  who  have  so  much  already.  You 
are  young  and  he  thinks  you  are  beautiful :  I  shall 
soon  be  old  and  I  was  always  plain  :  many  men  have 
loved  my  money,  but  no  one  has  ever  loved  me.  In 
the  Convent — I  was  brought  up  in  a  Convent — the 
sisters  taught  me  how  to  live  in  Heaven  :  they  forgot 
I  had  to  get  through  the  world  first.  My  parents  are 
dead  and  now  I  have  nothing  in  this  life  except  my 
wretched,  hopeless  interest  in  a  man  who  has  never 
given  me  a  thought.  Perhaps  I  need  not  say  that. 
He  is  the  only  man  I  know  who  has  not  asked  me  to 
marry  him,  so  I  think  he  must  like  me  a  little.  And 
he  comes  to  see  me  very  often.  But  you  only  care 
for  him  because  he  flatters  you,  you  are  proud  of  him 
because  he  is  distinguished,  but  I  was  proud  of  him 
when  he  was  poor  and  obscure,  when  every  one 
thought  him  an  outcast,  when  it  was  almost  a  crime 
in  our  miserable  little  corner  of  society  to  be  seen  even 
bowing  to  him.  You  do  not  understand  him  as  I  do : 
you  cannot  help  him  as  I  could  :  you  play  on  all  his 
weaknesses  :  every  hour  he  spends  with  you  will  be  a 
step  backwards.  Oh  !  he  is  no  hero  in  my  eyes,  no 


43  o  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

passionless,  faultless  machine,  but  a  Man.  .  .  .  Go  ! 
tell  him  all  I  have  said,  laugh  at  me,  pity  me,  say 
'  Poor  woman  !  That  so  plain  and  dull  a  creature 
should  fall  in  love.  How  pathetic  !  how  ridiculous  !' " 

Before  Lilian  could  reply,  Teresa  rushed  out  of  the 
room.  Lady  Mallinger  rubbed  her  eyes  :  she,  too, 
had  once  loved  like  this  and  she  had  been  deceived. 
The  mere  remembrance  of  Saville  drove  all  other 
thoughts  from  her  mind  :  she  forgot  Wiche,  she 
forgot  Teresa,  she  forgot  everything — the  universe 
contained  but  two  beings — herself  and  Rookes.  Fate 
brought  him  to  her  at  that  critical  moment. 

"  I  have  been  for  a  stroll  with  Sir  Ventry,"  he  began 
awkwardly.  "  I — I  am  wretched.  Are  you  still 
angry  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  we  can  have  anything  to  say  to 
each  other,  Saville,"  she  said  j  "  the  kst  words  were 
spoken  this  morning.  I  could  wish  they  had  been 
kinder  :  I  should  like  to  remember  that  we  parted,  at 
least  as  friends.  We  were  so  much  to  each  other 
once — once  we  thought  it  could  never  come  to  this. 
.  .  .  Please  leave  me." 

"  No,  I  have  been  longing  for  a  chance  to  speak  to 
you  ;  now  I  have  found  it,  you  must  listen.  I  will  not 
attempt  to  defend  myself — I " 

"  You  cannot :  how  could  you  ?  You  might 
perhaps  say  that  you  became  desperate  about  your 
debts,  and  so — in  a  sort  of  madness — thought  to 
marry  Felicia  for  her  money.  You  might  say — ah, 
a  thousand  things,  but  they  could  make  no  difference. 
It  is  too  late  to  think  of  them." 

"  Too  late  ?  "  said  Rookes.  "  How  can  it  be  too 
late  when  you  are  there  and  I  am  here."  He  knelt 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  43 1 

down  by  her  side  and,  custom  proving  too  strong  for 
him,  kissed  her  cheek.  Custom  was,  perhaps,  too 
strong  for  her  also  :  at  all  events,  she  made  no  re- 
sistance. "  You  know  my  faults,"  he  went  on,  "  you 
could  never  have  loved  me  for  my  perfection." 

"  I  loved  the  man  you  might  have  been,"  she 
murmured,  "  not  you  at  all."  She  glanced  down  and 
found  her  hand  lying  in  his.  "  Not  you  at  all,"  she 
repeated.  "  Besides  ...  it  really  is  too  late.  I — I 
have  lost  the  right  to  listen  to  you." 


VII. 

IN  the  meantime  Wiche's  half-hour  had  come  to  an 
end.  The  clock  was  chiming  five  when  he  appeared 
at  the  drawing-room  window.  Rookes  sprang  to  his 
feet :  Lady  Mallinger  affected  to  laugh. 

**  My  cousin  is  teasing  me,"  she  said  ;  "  he  will  not 
let  me  tell  him  that  I  am  really  a  very  serious  woman. 
He — he  does  not  believe  in  me  as  you  do  !  "  As  she 
spoke  she  touched  Wiche's  arm  as  though  to  assert  her 
ownership.  Neither  of  the  men  spoke  :  a  footman 
entered  and  announced  that  tea  was  served  on  the 
lawn. 

a  We  must  go  then,"  said  Lilian.  She  led  the  way, 
but  when  she  turned,  she  found  that  only  Wiche  had 
followed  her. 

"  It  is  as  well,"  she  said,  in  her  prettiest  manner  ; 
"  we  are  happier  by  ourselves  !  "  This  was  no  doubt 
charming,  and  it  may  have  been  true.  Wiche,  how- 
ever, was  no  less  troubled  by  the  fact  than  the  possi- 
bility. Both  were  distracting,  for,  at  that  moment, 
he  wished  to  overlook  her  fascination  and  think  only 
of  what  was  certain.  And  the  one  thing  certain  was, 
in  his  judgment,  her  love  for  Rookes.  This  truth — 
like  all  truths — had  flashed  upon  him  like  a  message 
from  his  guardian  angel. 

"  Do  not  look  so  grave,"  sa4d  Lady  Mallinger  j 
<e  we  have  been  serious  the  whole  afternoon,  and  now 
I  want  to  rest !  Do  you  like  me  in  pink  ?  Because 

4V 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  433 

I  have  the  loveliest  pink  satin  which  I  am  dying  to 
wear  this  evening." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "  he  said,  suddenly. 

"  Oh  !  My  dear,  dear  Sidney  !  One  can  see  that 
you  have  never  made  love  before  !  How  old  am  I  ? 
I  forget :  I  was  born  so  long  ago.  I  must  be  at  least 
twenty-two.  Of  course,  I  look  even  more,  but  then 
my  life  has  been  so  unhappy.  Now  it  will  all  be 
different,  and  perhaps  I  shall  grow  young  again.  You 
will  be  kind  to  me,  will  you  not  ?  And  patient  ? 
And  you  will  not  expect  to  find  me  very  good,  and 
very  truthful,  and  very  quiet  all  at  once.  You  will 
give  me  time  ?  And  you  will  not  often  be  as  cross 
as  you  are  now,  will  you  ?  "  At  length  she  saw  it 
was  useless  to  ignore  the  demon  who  sat  between 
them.  "  It  was  not  my  fault,"  she  said,  "  it  really 
was  not  my  fault.  I  told  Saville  I  had  lost  the  right 
to  listen  to  him.  And  now  you  are  blaming  me.  It 
is  so  hard  that  I  must  always  be  made  miserable — even 
when  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  be  contented.  I 
have  tried  my  very  best,"  she  added,  "to  be  happy 
this  afternoon  ! " 

"  Was  it  such  an  effort  ?  "  said  Wiche. 

"  All — all  is  an  effort,"  she  answered,  "  except 
folly.  That  seems  the  only  easy,  natural,  and  pleasant 
thing  in  the  world  !  " 

"  What  do  you  call  folly  ?  " 

"  Everything  I  want  to  do,  everything  I  want  to 
say,  everything  I  care  for — that  is  what  I  call  folly." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Wiche,  "  you  are  in  love.  And 
Rookes  is  the  man  !  " 

"  Tut !     How  little  you  know  me  !     I  admit  that 
I  am  greatly  attached  to  Saville — in  spite  of  his  faults, 
29 


434  <A  Bundle  of  Life. 

but  then  I  have  known  him  so  long  !  But  in  love 
with  him — never  !  We  are  the  dearest  friends  possible, 
and  quarrel  incessantly — but  that  is  all  !  " 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  "  said  Wiche,  "  are  you  sure  that 
is  all  ?  " 

She  made  no  answer,  but,  soothing  her  lace  which 
fluttered  a  little  in  the  breeze,  hummed  without 
knowing  it, 

"  Virtue  how  frail  it  is  ! 

Friendship  how  rare  ! 
Love,  how  it  sells  poor  blisi 
For  proud  despair  I  " 


"That,"  said  Wiche,  gravely,  "is  what  Rookes  was 
singing  last  evening." 

"  Pity  me,"  she  murmured. 

«  Why  ?  " 

"  I  adore  him  !  " 

While  we  exist  we  can  never  escape  any  stage  of 
development  j  if  our  infancy  be  prematurely  wise,  our 
years  of  discretion  will  have  an  inappropriate  childish- 
ness. Lilian  was  living  life  backwards,  and  her  sudden 
moods  of  immaturity  which  may  have  accounted  for 
Rookes's  corresponding  moods  of  fickleness,  filled 
Wiche  with  dismay.,  Passion  in  these  circumstances 
was  impossible  :  affection  became  angelic,  and  senti- 
ment lost  all  question  of  sex. 

"I  adore  Saville,"  she  repeated,  and  looked  at  Wiche 
with  so  beseeching  an  air,  with  such  utter  helplessness 
and  irresponsibility  that  he  wondered  how  he  could 
ever  have  mistaken  her  for  a  woman.  He  still  recog- 
nized her  grace  and  beauty,  but  it  roused  in  him  the 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  435 

same  kind  of  emotion  a  man  might  feel  on  seeing  the 
child  of  one  he  had  loved  deeply  and  who  was  dead. 
It  was  a  sorrowful  task  to  trace  the  resembknce  :  to 
note  the  likeness  in  line,  and  delicate  tones  and  expres- 
sion :  to  say  to  himself,  "  Lilian's  mouth  had  that 
curve,  her  eyes  were  that  colour,  her  throat  was  as 
white  ! " 

"  You  must  forget,"  he  said,  "  you  must  forget — if 
you  have  not  already  forgotten — all  that  passed  this 
afternoon.  It  was  a  great  mistake." 

//  was  a  great  mistake.  Lady  Mallinger  brushed 
the  echo  of  these  words  from  her  ear  :  she  would  not 
believe  that  they  had  ever  been  uttered.  "This  is 
what  comes,"  she  thought,  "of  telling  a  man  the 
truth  :  he  flies  !  " 

"  You  may  have  made  a  mistake,"  she  replied, 
"  but  I  have  said  nothing  to  you  which  I  could  ever 
wish  to  unsay.  Saville  told  me  this  morning  that 
men  may  fall  in  love  dozens  of  times,  but  that  each 
experience  is  new.  They  can  only  love  once  one  way. 
This  is  true  of  women  also.  And  it  all  comes  to  this : 
love  is  precisely  the  same  kind  of  emotion  as  religion. 
Oh,  if  we  would  only  be  as  patient  with  human  nature 
as  God  is  !  Some  days  we  are  more  devout  than 
others :  the  saint  who  appeals  to  you  in  one  mood 
may  repel  you  in  another :  this  month  we  devote 
ourselves  to  Our  Lady,  and  another  to  St.  Paul ;  some 
people,  too,  mistake  incense  for  dogma,  and  love  of 
music  for  love  of  virtue.  But  th"  folly  and  sensuous- 
ness  of  creatures  like  myself  cannot  touch  the  great 
unalterable  truths.  I  may  never  know  them  as  they 
are,  but  they  have  been  known.  You  will  wonder 
what  I  am  trying  to  tell  you.  It  is  hard  to  say :  i 


436  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

believe  I  mean  that  my  adoration  of  Saville  is  not  very 
serious  ! " 

Wiche  was  a  man  who  had  learnt  what  he  knew  of 
human  nature  through  self-discipline  and  not  through 
self-abandon.  Knowing  therefore  his  own  character 
and  its  possibilities  so  well,  he  was  astonished  to  find 
that  Lilian's  was  so  like — subject,  of  course,  to  certain 
feminine  modifications.  He  was  acquainted  with 
many  men  who  could  give  an  accurate  appraisement 
of  each  and  all  their  impulses,  thoughts,  and  emotions, 
who  were  such  skilled  self-analysts  that  they  never  by 
any  chance  confounded  their  soul  with  their  body,  or 
their  conscience  with  either.  He  had  never  met  a 
woman,  however,  who  possessed  this  power  even  in 
a  slight  and  half-unconscious  degree  j  he  looked  at 
Lilian  and  felt  that  while  she  had  cured  him  of  his 
fit  of  love,  she  had  never  seemed  so  deeply  interesting 
as  a  fellow-creature. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  you  must  surely  see  that  we 
should  be  wretched  if  we  married." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Lilian,  "  it  would  be  such  a  comfort 
to  me  to  have  some  one  I  could  really  trust  and  believe 
in  ;  some  one  who  would  help  me  to  be  serious  j  to 
know  one  being  at  least  who  was  not  led  away  by  all 
manner  of  idle  fancies  !  " 

The  irony  of  the  situation  would  have  been  ludicrous 
if  it  had  not  been  so  heart-breaking. 

"  Do  not  imagine  that  I  am  that  one  being,"  said 
Wiche,  hastily.  "God  knows  I  am  flimsy  enough. 
And  I  am  afraid  it  is  always  disastrous  to  pin  one's 
faith  to  a  mere  mortal.  Even  the  best  of  us  are 
miserably  imperfect  as  rocks  of  defence  ;  you  see  we 
are  flesh-and-blood,  we  are  not  granite." 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  437 

"  Treat  me  as  though  I  had  a  mind,  Sidney,"  she 
said,  "and  I  will  follow  you  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth  !  " 

"  I  do  not  think,"  he  stammered,  "  we  could  ever 
be  happy  together." 

"  You  mean,"  said  Lady  Mallinger,  "  that  you  do 
not  care  for  me  in  the  way  you  thought." 

"  I  will  always  be  your  friend,"  he  said,  firmly, 

"but "  Her  sense  of  what  was  just  and  meet  told 

her  that  it  only  remained  now  to  call  her  soul  into 
her  eyes,  gaze  mournfully  at  Wiche,  and  leave  him. 
Saville  after  all  loved  her  the  best. 

Women  like  Lady  Mallinger  have  to  die  young  in 
order  to  be  understood  :  then — and  then  not  always — 
some  onlooker  more  discerning  than  the  others  will 
see  in  the  cold  body  some  trace  of  a  fiery  spirit  too 
ardent  and  too  restless  for  mortality.  Alas  !  poor  soul. 
Seeking  the  highest,  best,  most  beautiful,  and  purest — 
and  finding  a  Saville  Rookes. 

The  modern  is  always  an  unwilling  slave  to  senti- 
ment :  if  he  find  himself  captivated  by  a  romantic  love 
or  a  sublime  ideal  he  accepts  his  state  in  the  shame- 
faced and  hopeless  certainty  that  his  common-sense 
will  one  day  come  to  the  rescue.  He  cannot  believe 
that  what  he  takes  for  beauty  will  always  be  so  fair, 
or  that  what  seems  good  for  the  moment  could  be 
inspiring  for  ever.  Satisfaction  only  makes  him  rest- 
less :  he  sighs  for  happiness  and,  having  found  it,  sighs 
lest,  after  all,  it  should  only  be  a  shadow  cast  by  his 
own  desires.  Wiche  therefore  suffered  his  disappoint- 
ment with  smiling  patience  and  with  something  even 
of  relief;  once  he  had  doubted  that  all  was  vanity, 
had  suspected  that  life  yet  held  much  that  was  precious 


438  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

and  desirable,  that  love  was  an  immortal  fact,  and 
endured.  He  felt  now  that  he  need  struggle  no  longer 
against  despair,  and,  abandoning  himself  to  the  intense 
pleasures  of  profound  melancholy,  became  agreeably 
tired  of  existence.  To  his  unspeakable  resentment, 
however,  one  shining  thought  pierced  the  blackness  of 
his  thoughts.  Teresa  still  remained.  But  she  had 
never  been  his  ideal.  Teresa  was  Teresa — a  vivid, 
distinct  personality,  a  being  whom  no  amount  of 
romantic  disguise  could  make  seem  other  than  she 
was,  and  who  was  incomparable,  not  because  of  her 
singukr  merits,  but  because  no  one  else  had  the  same 
faults. 


VIII. 

SIR  VENTRY  COXE  had  been  educated  in  the  belief 
that  his  cousin  Teresa  loved  him  madly.  When  he 
married  Lady  Susan  Hoppe-Gardner,  a  chorus  went 
up  from  all  the  members  of  his  family.  "  What  on 
earth  will  poor  Teresa  do  ?  "  She  was  present  at  the 
wedding,  nevertheless,  and  seemed  in  the  best  possible 
spirits  :  the  relations  looked  wise  and  murmured  that 
it  was  impossible  for  the  unhappy  girl  to  deceive  them. 
Ventry  was  particularly  kind  to  her  ;  he  clasped  her 
hand  warmly  when  he  started  on  his  honeymoon  and 
thanked  her  again  and  again  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
for  her  magnificent  gift  in  the  shape  of  a  diamond 
necklace  for  his  bride  :  every  one  said  it  was  too 
touching  for  words,  several  ladies  declared  that  Teresa 
grew  as  white  as  a  sheet  and  would  have  swooned  if 
Lord  Twacorbie,  with  his  ready  tact,  had  not  led  her 
to  the  air. 

A  few  years  passed  :  Miss  Warcop  refused  all 
offers  ;  Lady  Susan  died.  This,  all  the  relations 
said,  was  Fate.  Sir  Ventry,  remembering  Teresa's 
rent-roll,  thought  so  too.  He  decided  to  make  her 
his  wife  when  a  decent  period  of  mourning  had 
elapsed  ;  there  was  no  hurry,  she  was  there,  ready, 
waiting,  and  willing,  when  he  wanted  her. 

The  day  at  last  dawned  when  it  seemed  convenient 
to  address  her  on  the  subject  :  he  met  her  in  the  hall 
as  she  left  the  drawing-room  after  her  scene  with 

439 


44°  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

Lady  Mallinger.  She  was  greatly  embarrassed,  a  fact 
which  he  easily  attributed  to  her  sudden  encounter 
with  himself.  Smiling  magnanimously,  he  waited 
until  she  had  regained  her  composure. 

"  Shall  we  go  into  the  garden  ?  "  he  suggested. 

No,  she  was  feeling  rather  tired ;  she  had  a  slight 
headache  j  he  would  find  her  a  very  dull  companion. 

KDo  come,"  he  said,  in  his  most  persuasive  manner. 

Teresa,  who  was  always  amused  at  his  conceit,  and 
who  had  a  motherly,  pitying  affection  for  the  weak- 
nesses which  did  duty  for  his  character,  yielded  the 
point  and  followed  him.  He  began  to  talk  of  former 
days :  he  reminded  her  of  his  five-and-twentieth  birth- 
day, when  she  gave  him  a  hunter  and  wore  a  black 
cloak  lined  with  scarlet. 

"  You  look  awfully  well  in  scarlet,"  he  observed. 
She  blushed  :  scarlet  was  Wiche's  favourite  colour. 
Sir  Ventry,  however,  took  the  blush  to  himself. 

"  I  always  admired  you,  you  know,"  he  said  j 
"there  is  not  a  woman  in  the  family  who  has  got 
such  a  complexion,  and  your  eyelashes  are  so  long  !  " 

"  It  is  very  nice  of  you  to  say  so,"  said  Teresa : 
"  I,  myself,  do  not  think  they  are  bad.  Once  or 
twice  I  have  thought  I  looked  quite  decent ! " 

He  glanced  at  her  sideways.  Was  she  really  so 
plain  as  all  the  women  made  out  ? 

u  I  am  awfully  fond  of  you,"  he  said  suddenly. 

Teresa  was  by  no  means  dense.  "  My  dear  Ventry," 
she  said,  with  rather  a  nipping  air,  "  let  us  talk  like 
reasonable  beings." 

"  I  am  quite  serious,"  he  replied.  ee  Will  you 
marry  me,  Teresa  ?  " 

*c  Certainly  not.     You  must  be  mad." 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  441 

"  What  ?  " 

"You  must  be  mad.  And  think  yourself  very 
lucky  that  I  forgive  you  for  making  such  an  insulting 
suggestion."  Trembling  with  anger  she  left  him. 
He  looked  up  to  see  whether  the  Heavens  were 
falling. 


IX. 

TERESA  sat  alone  in  the  drawing-room  before  dinner 
that  evening.  The  lamps  were  lit  and  their  hazy 
light  fell  on  the  orange  velvet  draperies,  the  vases  of 
blue  Sevres,  the  Chinese  embroideries  on  scarlet  satin, 
the  copper  bowls,  the  tiger  skins  and  the  Indian 
shawls.  Teresa  loved  colour,  gorgeous  sunsets,  the 
blare  of  trumpets,  loud  music — all  that  could  send 
some  note  of  the  tremendous  into  the  undramatic 
tragedy  of  her  existence.  To-night  she  wore  a  gown 
of  silver  brocade  :  kce  concealed  her  neck,  and  long 
sleeves  her  arms,  but  neither  brocade  nor  lace  could 
hide  the  slight,  almost  angular  figure  of  their  wearer. 
She  held  a  book  of  devotions  in  her  kp,  the  leaves  of 
which  she  turned  at  random,  but  her  glance  fell  now 
on  the  clock,  and  now  on  the  mirror — rarely  on  the 
volume  and  its  grotesque  old  woodcuts  of  saints  and 
ecstatic  virgins.  At  last  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the 
corridor  without,  and  the  opening  of  a  door,  marred 
the  disquieting  repose  of  her  vigil.  She  let  fall  the 
book  of  prayers  j  the  little  crash  it  made  on  striking 
the  floor  and  the  rustle  of  her  silk  petticoat  drowned 
the  words  of  greeting  which  she  addressed  to  Wiche, 
who  now  entered. 

He  chose  a  chair  near  hers,  but  she,  half-uncon- 
sciously,  shrank  back.  He  was  too  engrossed  in  his 
own  thoughts,  however,  to  notice  the  movement. 

al  fear  I  seemed  most  ungrateful  this  afternoon," 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  443 

he  said,  "  but  I  felt  quite  sure  that  you  would  one 
day  understand  Lady  Mallinger,  and  know,  as  I  do, 
the  real  woman.  Perhaps  I  should  say  the  real 
child." 

"  When  I  spoke,"  said  Teresa,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I 
did  not  know  that  you  loved  her.  And  she  has 
charmed  away  my  prejudice  since  then.  I  will 
frankly  admit  that  I  did  not  wish  to  discover  any- 
think  bewitching  either  in  her  face  or  in  her  manner. 
I  only  wanted  to  have  the  right  to  detest  her  with  a 
clear  conscience  !  " 

"  Yet,  in  spite  of  all  this,  she  conquered  you  ?  " 

"  She  conquered  me,"  repeated  Teresa,  "  but  let  me 
say  one  thing — she  is  too  romantic  :  she  lives  by 
moonlight." 

Wiche  laughed.  "  She  has  seen  a  great  deal  of  the 
world,"  he  said,  "  and  I  have  often  been  struck  by  her 
extraordinary,  almost  terrible  common-sense.  She  may 
have  a  certain  amount  of  sentimentalism  in  her  brain, 
but  at  heart  she  is  cold  and  critical.  This  ache  to 
be  amused,  this  longing  to  hear  music  in  the  air,  to 
see  beauty  on  all  sides,  to  find  life  one  ever-new, 
yet  ever-abiding  pleasure,  these  are  the  fierce,  never- 
gratified  desires  of  those  who  love  only  themselves. 
But  to  him  who  loves  others — even  one  other" — he 
found  himself  looking  into  Teresa's  eyes — "even  one 
other — the  commonest  things  seem  rare,  the  blackest 
shadows  have  a  radiance  indescribable,  and  the  harshest 
notes  are  heavenly  melodies  :  disappointment,  bitter- 
ness, and  desolation  have  no  part  in  his  existence  ! " 

"These  exalted  moods  are  brief — terribly  brief," 
said  Teresa,  "  and  they  show  us  just  enough  of  our 
lost  divinity  to  make  us  ever  more  wretched  as  mere 


444  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

mortals  and  children  of  Adam.  It  is  the  day  after, 
the  days  after,  the  weeks,  months,  years  after  when 
we  can  only  remember  that  once  we  were  happy  for 
half-an-hour ! "  She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  Wiche's 
presence,  and  he  felt  that  she  was  thinking  of  some- 
thing in  her  own  experience  in  which  he  bore  no 
part.  It  was  certain  that  she  could  have  no  know- 
ledge of  his  love-adventure  with  Lady  Mallinger,  and 
he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  tell  the  news  just 
then. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "  I  have  often 
wondered  why  you  are  the  only  one  in  the  world 
I  can  talk  to  without  the  dread  of  saying  either  more 
or  less  than  I  mean." 

"  I  will  tell  you  why,"  she  answered  :  "  I  could 
never  misunderstand  you,  Sidney,  because  I  love  you." 
Although  she  was  a  woman  in  whom  the  coquette 
was,  at  all  events,  slumbering,  her  primmest,  least 
emotional  manner  had  the  mysterious  charm  of  those 
things  which  we  note  unmoved  and  remember  with 
passionate  interest.  She  made  her  declaration  of  love 
so  quietly  that  Wiche  saw  neither  its  oddness,  nor, 
indeed,  its  full  meaning  :  he  coloured  a  little,  however, 
at  the  sense  her  words  might  have  conveyed. 

"  Do  not  think  I  am  choosing  phrases  at  random," 
she  went  on,  "  I  meant  what  I  said.  There  is  only 
one  thing  in  my  life  which  I  can  be  grateful  for — 
that  is  my  love  for  yourself.  Many  people  would 
think  it  very  unwomanly  on  my  part  to  tell  you  this  : 
I  am  only  proud  to  know  that  I  am  capable  of  loving 
any  one.  All  affection  seems  to  have  been  laughed 
out  of  the  world :  when  it  is  not  ridiculous,  it  is 
thought  hysterical.  To  me  it  remains  and  always 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  445 

must  remain,  the  greatest — the  only  perfect  gift- 
that  God  has  given  us.  So  I  have  told  you."  Her 
lips  trembled  a  little  as  she  added,  "  I  suppose,  too, 
you  have  heard  it  already  from  Lady  Mallinger?" 

"What  could  I  hear  from  Lady  Mallinger?"  he 
asked,  growing  more  and  more  bewildered.  Teresa's 
expression  was  so  frigid  though  her  words  were  so 
kind.  "  I  am  sure  we  are  talking  at  cross  purposes." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  she  stammered,  "  that 
she  never  told  you  all — all  I  said  to  her  this  after- 
noon ?  " 

"  She  has  never  uttered  your  name." 

Teresa  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  forced  back 
her  tears.  She  had  needlessly  betrayed  her  secret. 

"  I  will  explain,"  she  said,  at  last.  "  Lady  Mal- 
linger told  me  this  afternoon  that  she  was  going  to 
marry  you :  we  had  some  words  and  I — I  confessed 
quite  plainly  what  I — I  said  just  now.  And  I  thought 
she  would  surely  repeat  it — so — in  order  to  avoid  any 
misapprehension — I  decided  to  let  you  hear  it  from 
me  also.  It  needed  courage,  but  now  all  my  courage 
has  gone — I  had  only  enough  for  that.  It  wanted  so 
much.  Do  not  say  a  word  :  please  go." 

"  Lady  Mallinger  is  not  going  to  marry  me,"  he 
said,  quietly. 

He  touched  Teresa's  hand,  and  conquered  his  im- 
pulse to  kiss  it :  that  was  not  the  moment,  nor  indeed 
could  he  imagine  a  time  when  it  might  be  the  moment. 
She  seemed  to  stand  in  an  enchanted  circle.  Suddenly, 
he  saw  that  she  was  crying.  This  touch  of  weakness 
seemed  to  supply  the  one  thing  he  had  always  missed 
in  her  character.  Teresa  had,  as  a  rule,  a  self-command 
which  was  almost  forbidding— even  her  occasional  indis- 


446  A  Bundle  of  Life. 

cretions  had  something  well-considered  and  reasonable. 
She  lacked  that  inconsequence,  that  capriciousness,  that 
delicious  nonsense  which  most  men  and  all  strong 
natures  find  so  alluring  aud  adorable.  To  see  her 
weeping,  therefore,  was  to  behold  a  new  creature. 
Wiche  was  uncertain  how  to  reply,  when  she  herself, 
brushing  the  tears  from  her  cheeks,  asked  him  a 
question. 

"  Why  ? "  she  said,  "  why  are  you  not  going  to 
marry  Lady  Mallinger  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  about  that,"  he  said.  "  I  am 
afraid  there  is  not  time  to  tell  the  whole  story  now. 
But  Lady  Mallinger  discovered  that  she  had  made  a 
mistake,  she  loved  some  one  else,  and  I — I  have  been 
such  a  fool,  Teresa,  such  a  fool !  I  do  not  know 
whether  I  love  you  or  not.  I  only  know  that  I  hate 
my  life  when  you  are  not  near  me  ! "  This  truth, 
which  had  been  sleeping  so  long,  woke  at  the  first 
whisper  of  its  name :  he  realized  how  pitiably  little 
would  remain  to  him  if  Teresa  were  taken  from  his 
memory:  it  was  her  very  oneness  with  his  own  'mind 
which  had  made  him  overlook  her  :  when  he  imagined 
that  he  was  thinking  of  himself  he  was  thinking  of 
Teresa  also. 

"  I  only  know,"  he  said  once  more,  "  that  I  hate  my 
life  when  you  are  not  near  me !  " 

She  could  have  wished  that  he  had  expressed  himself 
with  less  egoism ;  if  he  cared  for  her  at  all  it  was 
because  she  was  necessary  to  his  peace  of  soul :  at 
least,  so  it  sounded.  But  she  was  a  woman  who 
found  her  happiness  in  giving  and  loving  :  she  made 
no  demands ;  she  looked  neither  for  gratitude,  nor 
homage,  nor  appreciation ;  she  only  asked  the  right 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  447 

to  give  and  to  love.  So  she  gave  Wiche  her  hand ; 
her  heart  had  been  his  from  the  beginning. 

"  Without  you,"  she  said,  "  I  have  no  life  to 
hate  !  " 

This  may  have  been  weak,  but  Teresa  was  not 
strong-minded.  And  perhaps  it  is  as  well  for  those 
of  us  who  are  proud  and  self-reliant  that  just  such 
simple,  undignified,  and  affectionate  creatures  are  to 
be  found  here  and  there.  They  may  speak  for  us 
on  Judgment  Day,  which  will  be  the  longest,  darkest, 
and  coldest,  this  world  has  seen. 


WHICH  CONTAINS  A  LETTER  WRITTEN  THE  SAME 
EVENING  BY  LADY  TWACORBIE  TO  HER 
HUSBAND. 

"ARDEN  LODGE, 

"NEAR  WENSLEY, 

"  MERTFORD. 

"  MY  DEAR  HAROLD, — I  am  so  annoyed  and  dis- 
gusted that  I  can  scarcely  hold  my  pen.  Wiche  has 
proposed  to  Teresa,  and  has  been  accepted.  What 
could  be  more  outrageous  than  such  conduct  ?  As 
for  Teresa,  you  know  I  always  thought  her  dreadfully 
sly.  How  any  woman  could  prefer  Wiche  to  Ventry  ! 
But  there,  what  on  earth  does  Wiche  see  in  Teresa  ? 
Van  Huyster  told  me  in  the  course  of  conversation 
at  dinner  that  he  is  engaged  to  some  American  person 
in  Paris,  and  that  he  hopes  to  persuade  her  to  marry 
him  on  the  Fourth  of  July.  We  must  really  be  more 
careful  in  future  about  whom  we  invite  to  the  house. 
Lilian  and  Rookes  are  flirting  in  the  most  unexpected 
manner.  I  thought  they  could  not  bear  each  other. 
Nothing,  however,  would  astonish  me  in  that  direction 
after  the  surprises  of  this  day.  I  believe  that  I  am 
the  only  sane  person  in  the  house.  Thank  goodness, 
they  all  go  to-morrow.  I  long  for  rest.  Felicia 
seems  hysterical ;  I  never  knew  a  girl  of  seventeen 
448 


A   'Bundle  of  Life.  449 

with  so  many  nerves.     She  must  go  on  with  that  steel 
tonic,  and  take  fencing  lessons. 

"Your  affectionate  wife, 

"CHARLOTTE  TWACORBIE. 

"  P.S. — Spalding  has  just  been  in  to  say  that  he  and 
Danby  wish  to  get  married  this  day  month  !  What 
could  be  more  tiresome  ?  I  begged  him  to  reconsider 
it,  but  he  said  it  was  too  late.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind. 

"  P.S.  No.  2.  Ventry  has  given  me  to  understand 
that  he  proposed  to  Teresa  this  afternoon,  and  that 
she  seemed  quite  annoyed.  He  is  furious,  and  blames 
ME.  I  dare  not  tell  him  about  Wiche." 


EPILOGUE. 

Spoken  by  a  Daughter  of  Eve^  who  is  weeping,  and  an 
Angel^  who  looks  out  of  fashion* 

THE  ANGEL. 

This  is  only  sorrow 

For  To-Day. 

Life  begins  To-Morrow  I 

A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE. 

y  So  they  say. 

THE  ANGEL. 

Life  with  love  and  laughter 

Gay  and  free — 

Yet  no  heartache  after. 

A   DAUGHTER  OF   EVE. 
Can  it  be  ? 

THE  ANGEL. 

Life  with  work  that  reaches 

To  the  sky  ; 

Life  that  never  teaches 

How  to  die. 

Life  that  is  eternal. 

Ever  young, 


A  Bundle  of  Life.  451 

—————— 

Ever  bright  and  vernal 
Just  begun  ! 

A   DAUGHTER  OF  EVE. 

Will  To-Morrow  ever  dawn  ? 
Shall  we  wake  that  golden  morn 
But  to  see 

All  the  treasures  gained  by  tears, 
All  the  faith  that's  won  by  fears- 
Vanity  ? 

THE  ANGEL. 

Doubter,  look  behind  thee 

In  the  past, 

All  the  dreams  that  pleased  thee 

Did  one  last  \ 

Is  a  wish  remaining 

From  thy  youth  ? 

This  thou  art  retaining 

If  'twas  truth. 

Mortal  passions  sicken. 

Fade  away — 

Love  alone  can  quicken 

Earthly  clay. 

Faith,  and  all  endeavour 

That  is  pure, 

Hope,  and  Love,  for  ever 

These  endure. 

All  things  else  are  folly 

To  the  wise, — 

Quit  thy  melancholy 

And  thy  sighs  I 


<>  The  Skippers 
Wooing 


^« 

§8 

I 


BY 

W.W.  Jacobs 

Author  of 

"Many  forgoes." 


The  hero  of  this  amusing  story  is  the  captain  of  an 
English  coasting  vessel.  He  bestows  his  affections  upon  a 
charming  school  teacher,  and  his  courtship  is  one  of  many 
most  amusing  incidents.  His  crew  attempt  to  help  him 
in  his  love  affair,  and  strange  complications  arise,  which 
are  described  by  Mr.  Jacobs  with  all  his  delightful  humor. 

Besides  the  story  from  which  this  volume  takes  its 
name  it  contains  "The  Brown  Man's  Servant,"  written 
in  a  more  serious  style  than  we  are  accustomed  to  expect 
from  Mr.  Jacobs,  and  with  a  strength  that  will  delight  his 
many  admirers* 

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"  Mr.  Jacobs  is  one  of  the  funniest  men  on  the  face  of 
the  earth." — Philadelphia  Item. 

"A  collection  of  genuinely  funny  sailor  yarns,  anjr  one 
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LYING  ^ 

PROPHETS.      * 

By  EDEN  PHILLPOTTS. 

A  new  novel  by  this  popular  author,  which  has  already 
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A  story  of  great  ability  and  force* 

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The  School  for  SaJrats. 

By  JOHN  OLIVER  HOBBES. 

(Jfr*.  Craiyie.) 

A«th»r  of  "Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral,"  "  A  Study  In 

Temptations,"  "A  Bundle  of  Love."  "The 

Sinner's  Comedy." 

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and  containing  one  most  amusing  charactc  who 
is  made  the  medium  of  the  expression  of  much 
good  sense  and  excellent  philosophy  couched  in 
rustic  language. 

I6mo,  buckram,  tastefully  stamped  with  gold,  $1.25 
* 

f»r  Soft  by  all  Booksellers,  or  Sent  Postpaid  iy 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY, 

27  &  29,  Vest  23d  Street,  New  York. 


The  Gty  of  Refuge. 

By  SIR  WALTER  BESANT. 

Author  of  "  Beyond  the  Dreams  of  Avarice?  "  Armor  el  of 
Lyonesse"  *  Children  of  Gibeon"  etc. 

The  plot  deals  to  some  extent  with  the  supernatural, 
the  greater  part  of  the  incidents  occurring  in  a  com- 
munity in  the  State  of  New  York. 

The  heroine  is  a  young  girl  of  great  beauty,  who  is  a 
member  of  this  community,  and  who  has  the  power  of 
conversing  with  the  dwellers  in  the  other  world.  An 
Englishman  of  high  social  position  who  becomes  a  ref- 
ugee and  a  young  nobleman  who  acts  the  part  of  an 
avenger  are  prominent  in  the  story. 

The  novel  goes  into  a  new  field  for  this  author,  and 
should  attract  attention  because  of  its  references  to  the 
supernatural  and  the  charming  love  story  involved. 

r  2  mo,  buckram,  with  twelve  full  page  illustrations, 
$1.50. 


Another  popular  work  by  the  same  Author  fe 

THE  MASTER  CRAFTSMAN. 

A  graceful  love  story  of  London  and  Wapping. 

"Sir  Walter  Besant  has  never  given  us  anything  more 
fascinating  than  this  story."  —  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"Piquant  and  attractive  throughout."  —  Detroit  Tri- 
bune. 

With  the  latest  portrait  of  the  author.    12010,  gilt  top, 
$1.50. 


For  Sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  Sent  Postpaid  by 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY,  Publishes, 

27  and  29,  West  23rd  Street,  New  York. 


I  By  George  Gissing,  the  author  of  "The  Unclaimed,**  "In 

I  the  Year  of  Jubilee,"  "Eve's  Ransom,"  "Sleeping  Fires,"  etc. 

A  deep  and  comprehensive  study,  which  is  likely  to  make  j 

[  a  profound  impression  upon  thoughtful  readers* 

Admirably  -written  and  admirably  conceived,  this  is  a  novel  I 
I  to  delight  all  who  seek  with  anxiety  among  modern  fiction  vihat\ 
I  is  truly  valuable. — LITERARY  WORLD,  LONDON. 

"  In  the  new  generation  of  novelists,  Mr.  George  Gissing  I 
I  has  already  taken  a  conspicuous  place.  '  The  Whirlpool '  will 
certainly  enhance  his  reputation.  His  great  merit  as  a  writer  I 
of  fiction  is  that,  although  he  takes  a  somewhat  sombre  view 
of  life,  he  writes  with  so  much  conviction  and  deals  with  the 
facts  of  modern  life  in  so  natural  a  manner,  that  the  reader  is 
forced  to  realize  each  successive  picture.  There  is  an  absence 
of  affectation,  too,  that  is  refreshing  in  an  age  of  precosity, 
and  there  is  none  of  that  violent  straining  after  effect  which 
disfigures  the  novels  of  several  of  ^ur  new  and  smart  young 
men.  In  '  The  Whirlpool '  Mr.  Gissing  gives  us  a  strange 
but  true  picture  of  London  life  as  lived  to-day." — PUBLISHER'S  | 
[CIRCULAR,  LONDON. 

Mr.  Gissing  works  for  all  he  gets — works  hard  with  infinite  I 
\painsand  muck  sound  and  manly  thought.  He  has  little  of\ 
1  Kipling's  sudden  flashes  of  illuminating  insight,  and  nothing  of\ 
I  Jfowelf s all-pervading  humor,  but  he  obtains  respect  and  ad-\ 
\miration  from  the  start.  There  is  some  mighty  vigor  ous\ 
\Ianguage  in  the  book. — HAMLIN  GARLAND  in  the  BOOK| 
I  BUYER. 

* 
J2mo,  doth,  $1.25.    Cover  by  Wifl  Bradley. 

For  Sale  ~by  all  Booksellers,  or  Sent  Postpaid  "by 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY, 

27  &  29,  Vest  23d  Street,  New  York. 


BY  GEORGE  GISSING 


A     000106693     5 


